


Bookends, or The Relative Absurdity of Truth and Fiction

by Dragonomatopoeia (IntelligentAirhead)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: But I haven't tagged her because she isn't the focus, Casphardt Week (Fire Emblem), Don't let the prologue trick you, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Golden deer route because of who I am as a person, Lysithea is also here and given a fair bit of attention, M/M, Playing fast and loose with the principles behind reason magic, Primarily Linhardt POV, Werewolf adjacent elements, and I don't want people to be disappointed, by her making cameos in like three chapters total, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-01-25 16:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21359383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntelligentAirhead/pseuds/Dragonomatopoeia
Summary: "Once upon a time, there was a book. No one was happy about this."Trapped in a difficult situation with little hope of escape, Lysithea uses an experimental spell to save Caspar from being captured by Imperial forces. However, when the magic fails to dissipate when it's supposed to, what was supposed to be a short-lived stint in a storybook turns into something much more worrisome.Luckily for Caspar, Linhardt is as skilled at figuring out finicky magic as he is at finding the most important parts of a book, and he's determined to bring his best friend back home.Even if he has to break a curse or two to do it.(Written for Casphardt Week's "Adventure" Prompt)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 25
Kudos: 123





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't manage to finish the entire fic by Day 6 of Casphardt week like I'd planned, but most of it's done, so I figured I should at least post the first chapter or so. Hope you enjoy!

** _The Story Could Begin Like This:_ **

_ Once upon a time, two comrades-in-arms sat astride a single horse. Neither were pleased to be there, as they were unused to each other’s company, but they were committed to their duties, nonetheless.  _

* * *

If Caspar absolutely had to, he could probably come up with a list of things worse than sharing a horse with a pissed-off Lysithea. Like being electrocuted in full plate-armor. Or when the Professor stares him down like he’s about to get kicked out of the monastery for being too much trouble. Or that one nightmare where he gets disgracefully discharged for not chewing with his mouth closed, and Linhardt tells him it serves him right. Or... maybe falling off a cliff? Or getting stabbed. 

Though, he’s risking that last one the longer he and Lysithea travel together. 

It’s not that he’s trying to piss her off! It’s just that she’s kind of angry in the first place, since she hasn’t had time to study or read or anything the entire time they’ve been travelling, and it’s obvious she’d rather be doing something more important than collecting information. Doesn’t much help that Lysithea has a really, really methodical way of doing stuff, and Caspar… doesn’t. 

It’s a mystery that the Professor assigned them together for  _ any _ mission, much less an intelligence-gathering one. Not like Caspar’s ever had much success with any of that.

Lysithea makes a frustrated noise, and— oh, she’s been trying to elbow his stomach to get his attention. So that’s what that what that feeling was. 

“What’s up?” Caspar asks, slowing the horse. The mare’s ears flick in irritation, and he has to reach around Lysithea to calm her. 

“We’ll be coming upon the town gates in only a short while,” Lysithea says. She goes to cross her arms, then, apparently realizing their position makes that kinda impossible, sighs. “We need to review our roles before we encounter any of the citizens.”

“Eh.” Caspar wrinkles his nose. “What’s there to review? Not unusual for merchant families to send their kids away, these days, if they think it’s gonna be safer somewhere else. No one’s gonna give us a second look.”

“What’s your name.”

“Casp— Oh.”

“Yes, Caspar, oh.” Lysithea groans for a second, but then she seems to pull herself together. Which is unfortunate, ‘cause for Lysithea, that means really, really stiff posture, which isn’t great for her  _ or _ the horse. She’s gonna be real sore when they get into town. 

Oh shit. She’s been talking. “—ssor said that you’d be the best person for the job, and I trust their opinion, but you need to  _ prove _ it, Caspar,” Lysithea says. “I’ve seen you get serious, and I know you can handle this, but it’s got me—” She takes a steadying breath. “I am…  _ very _ on-edge right now, and it would help to have reassurance that you’re not going to throw the plan out and rush into a fight.”

A blaze of anger rushes through Caspar’s stomach before fizzling out, suffocated before it can burn. It probably would have hurt less if Lysithea had just said she didn’t think he could do it. At least then he could focus on proving her wrong. Instead, it’s like she’s pulling his own worries out of his head and flinging them at him like rock-packed snowballs. 

After the men with the scorpion-tattoos…

No. No, he wasn’t wrong to prioritize the kids when he did. But he can afford to bide his time here. He doesn’t have to rush in. Not when everyone’s depending on him. 

“I get it, Lys,” Caspar says, finally. “I promise I’m taking this seriously. I told the professor I wouldn’t stir up any trouble unless I saw people getting hurt, and I don’t break my word.”

Lysithea turns as much as her position will let her, squinting at him. Finally, she relaxes. As much as Lysithea ever relaxes, anyway. “Good.”

They ride in silence for a moment, and Caspar takes advantage of it to commit his role and fake name to memory.

He’s never been too good at deception. Once, Linhardt’s mother caught him swinging his legs over the kitchen counter right after he’d eaten all the sweet-rolls that were set out to cool; Linhardt could only shake his head, stunned, as his mother politely listened to Caspar’s explanation that the pastries had migrated south because “they got too cold.” 

“No offense to the Professor, or anything,” Caspar starts, “but why  _ did _ they think I was the best person for this job? I’m not exactly stealthy.”

“We’re gathering information,” Lysithea replies, her voice automatically falling into the pattern of her lectures and strategy meetings. “Therefore, it only makes sense to select someone who can easily bond with strangers.” After a moment, she jerks. “Wait a second! You didn’t ask before we left?”

Caspar shrugs, but it’s kind of spoiled by the grin on his face. Part of him had been worried this was basically babysitting for Lysithea— it’s nice to know that he has a reason for being here. That he’s needed.

“You’re unbelievable sometimes, you know that?” 

“So I’ve been told!” Caspar laughs. “Lin says it about three times a day.”

“It’s a miracle he hasn’t died from stress yet. No wonder he’s constantly exhausted.” Lysithea shakes her head, making a sound that could have practically come from the horse they’re riding, half-snort, half-sigh. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Don’t be like that, Lys!” Caspar says, nudging her. “It’ll be fine. And, if nothing else, it’ll be a great story for when we get home.”

* * *

“Oh, this sucks,” Caspar groans, hunched behind a pile of discarded fruit crates. The smell of rotten plums doesn’t help the pounding of his head, but nothing else about the situation is either.

“I told you— I knew this would happen!” Lysithea hisses, barely audible from where she’s crouched in the shade, a little further down the alley. 

“Uh-uh, you did  _ not _ say the town'd be crawling with imperial soldiers,” Caspar says. 

“Not that! I told you this would go badly!” She huffs. “Ugh. We’re going to have to find an alternative route out of town if we want to survive long enough to tell the Professor about this.”

“We can’t just leave!” Caspar whirls to face her, fists clenching. “We have to help the town!”

“And we will,” Lysithea says, “but we can’t right now! You promised to  _ think, _ Caspar, so think.” She sighs. “We didn’t bring our battalions. We’re two people.”

“But…” Caspar grits his teeth. He has to make her understand. “The people here need us!”

“They need us alive!” Lysithea snaps, then freezes. She looks around, checking to make sure her voice hasn’t caught the attention of any soldiers. “So we can continue to help,” she continues, quieter. “I know it hurts, Caspar, but we have to retreat for now. We can’t handle this alone.”

“I’ve seen you take down the  _ Death Knight  _ alone,” Caspar argues. “Pow, bam, and done! How’s a bunch of soldiers any different?” 

“The Death Knight wasn’t in the middle of a crowd of civilians, surrounded by buildings!” Lysithea grabs his arm. “My magic is  _ destructive. _ If I get into a battle here, there will be casualties. We don’t have two people who can fight here, Caspar. Not if we want to protect these people.”

“So…” Caspar lets his shoulders fall. “We’re just going to run away?”

“No,” Lysithea says, relaxing slightly. She pats his shoulder. “We’re going to get Hilda’s wyvern unit stationed around the taller buildings, use Ignatz’s team and Flayn’s monks to safely evacuate as many people as possible, and position Bernadetta’s snipers around the North and West entrances.” She makes a face. “Well, Claude and the Professor might come up with a different plan, but the essentials remain the same.” She fixes him with a determined stare, and, right, how could Caspar forget? This is Lysithea. There’s no way she’d leave anyone behind if she could help it. 

“We’re not abandoning the town.” Lysithea squeezes his shoulder. “We’re regrouping, so we can save it.” 

Caspar barely inclines his head in defeat before the sound of shoes scuffing against cobblestone sends ice through his blood. 

“—gotta be shitting me,” a high voice, rough with exhaustion, grits out. “You’re telling me the Bergliez brat’s in town?”

Lysithea’s grip tightens, and Caspar can feel her magic buzz around his shoulder. He lets her pull him further into the alley, though he wants nothing more than to step into the sun and throw a punch.

“Careful,” a lower voice growls. “Traitor abandoned his name and county the second he ran. Don’t pay him the respect of a name he didn’t care to bleed for.”

“Shove off,” the first voice, closer than before, bites out. “How’d you prefer I call ‘im? Over half the holy terrors have got themselves disowned by now. Want me to assign ‘em numbers?”

“About all they deserve. Grew up with a title and all the land they could ask for and they don’t stick around to see us die for it? Don’t even bother to fight for us?” A dry laugh rattles around the alleyway like a ballista shot, and Caspar tenses. They’re getting dangerously close. “Traitors like that… All they deserve is to be put down.”

Caspar is moving before he can think about it, snapping his arm with the turn of his hips. He knows where the speaker will be, knows how tall they are and the length of their stride by the way their voice carried, knows his fist will make contact.

And it does. But not with anyone’s head.

Caspar blinks, stunned, at the puff of dust that rises from the wall he has just punched, then whirls around. He’s not in the alley anymore. He doesn’t even know where he is, and worse, he doesn’t know where—

“Honestly! Would you watch where you’re going!” Lysithea’s voice is muffled, but it’s loud enough that Caspar’d probably be able to hear her even if he wasn’t on alert. She’s still in the alleyway, even if he’s not. “Bad enough that we’ve had to throw out all these supplies! Ugh! Now I have to waste my time picking up garbage!” 

“You shouldn’t have been skulking around a place like this in the first place,” the lower voice grits out, and something in Caspar’s shoulders relaxes. 

Lysithea must have warped him away so she could talk her way out of the situation. It’s not how he’d prefer to deal with the situation, but it’s not exactly new, either. Goddess knows Linhardt’s almost faster to warp Caspar out of danger than he is to heal him, nevermind that it leaves Lin behind, squishy and vulnerable.

Ugh. Magic users. 

“A dangerous enemy of the empire has been spotted in this area,” the same soldier says. There’s a pause. “Besides, curfew’s starting soon, anyway.” 

“Thank you for the reminder,” Lysithea answers, her voice suddenly Hilda-When-She-Wants-Something-Sweet. The soldiers could probably eat the words with syrup. “Unfortunately, it might take me a bit to pick up these plums. All I can do is hope Mr. Dangerous Deserter _ keeps his distance.” _

Alright, message received. 

Caspar flops back against the wall, crossing his arms as he settles in. Sure, he can be dense sometimes, but she didn’t have to lay it on  _ that _ thick for him to get it.

“How’d you know the person we’re looking for is a deserter?” The soldier with the higher voice asks, and Caspar freezes.

“Or a man, for that matter,” the lower voice chimes in, and nope, that’s it. Caspar has to cut this off at the pass. 

It’s like Lysithea said. Her powers aren’t made for keeping structures… integral. If she has to knock these guys out, it won’t be quiet or pretty. 

“I overheard the two of you as you rounded the bend,” Lysithea says, which is a good attempt at a recovery, except— 

“How’d we startle you into dropping the fruit, then? If you really heard us coming, any—” The soldier doesn’t get the chance to finish their sentence, crumpling under Caspar’s fist. The second follows half a moment later.

“I told you to keep away!” Lysithea says, stepping lightly over their bodies. 

“No time to argue, they’ll be back up soon.” Caspar shakes his head, then gets ready to sprint back to the spot Lysithea warped him. 

“They’re not dead?” Lysithea pulls on his arm to stop him before he can start running. “Not that way. Here,” she directs him to the path on their left. 

“I thought we wanted to avoid making a scene!” Caspar objects. “And where are we going?”

“Western entrance. It seems like all the troops are gathering at the Northern Inn, ergo, the Northern route is out.” Lysithea grimaces. “And we  _ were _ avoiding it, up until we found out they already know you’re here. Things are… messier, now.” 

“Ugh. That figures.” Caspar ruffles his hair in agitation. Why can’t anything go the way they want it to? “The one time I try to hold back, and… Gah! Whatever! Let’s just focus on getting out of here.”

“Agreed. The sooner we get out of here, the— shit!” Lysithea grabs Caspar’s arm, pulling him back into the serviceway. She cranes her neck, staring past him. “Seiros. They’re checking anyone leaving the town.”

“Shit,” Caspar breathes. “So… do we just rush ‘em and hope it works?”

“No.” Lysithea’s glare feels like a spell in and of itself, all fire and miasma. “Ugh. Let me— I can get us out of this. Let me think.” Which, sure, Caspar’s great at letting his friends do the thinking, except usually that means they stare into space, or write equations on things, not whatever Lysithea’s doing with her bag. She rummages around in her satchel, handing Caspar random stuff as she goes.

“Is this... thinking?”

“In a sense,” Lysithea says, then makes a triumphant noise. “Here!” She thumps a hand against whatever she’s found, then blinks at Caspar. “Why are you holding all of that?”

“You gave it to me!”

“Oh. Right.” Lysithea waves a hand, then starts putting her stuff back. “Sorry, I was trying to find this.” She shows Caspar the object she’d been looking for, and—

“It’s a book.”

“Exactly!” Lysithea beams. “It’s also our ticket out of here. No one’s raised the alarm for me yet, but they are on the lookout for you. So all we need to do is make you disappear for a while.”

“So… you want me to hide out in town until you come back, or…?” Caspar frowns. That doesn’t explain the book. 

“Not at all,” Lysithea says, and the smug intonation really, really doesn’t bode well. “I’ve been conducting intensive research lately using a spell I designed. Basically, by analyzing the principles behind Luna and Hades, I’ve figured out a way to create an extra-dimensional pocket with specific boun—” She stops herself at the look on Caspar’s face, then clears her throat. “I can create a space within my books where I’m actually interacting with them. It helps with research, but it also means I have to physically travel there. If I use it on you, you’ll be able to hide within this book until it’s safe to come out.” 

Which, that sounds neat and all, if incomprehensible, except...

“Wait a second. How long have you been able to—” Caspar narrows his eyes. “Does the Professor know you can do this? Why haven’t we been using it for, like, sneak attacks or something?” Linhardt  _ definitely  _ doesn’t know about it. He’d have thrown himself into his books quicker than Caspar can throw a punch. 

“It may, perhaps, be a bit experimental,” Lysithea says, wincing. “I’ve yet to conduct trials with other participants. It  _ has _ worked every time I’ve used it, however, and my formulas are flawless.” She looks back at the gate. “And it isn’t as if we have any other choice at the moment.”

Caspar makes a noise in the back of his throat, but… well. She’s not wrong. Besides, Lysithea knows her stuff. She’s about as obsessed with perfecting her formulas as Linhardt is with his research. 

It’s not like they have much to lose by trying. 

“Okay,” Caspar says, after a moment. “Fine. It better be a fun book, though.”

“You’ll barely be there long enough to notice,” Lysithea says, already cracking the book open. “But yes, I hear it’s plenty entertaining.” There’s a detailed illustration of a forest spread across one of the pages, pretty enough that it almost distracts Caspar from the key detail that— 

“You haven’t read it?”

“I haven’t had time!” Lysithea complains. Her magic is gathering around them, the impatient vibration of it buzzing under Caspar’s skin. “Flayn only lent it to me a few days ago.”

“Well,” Caspar says, as he feels the world slip away, “I’ll tell you if it’s any good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan of action is made

** _The Story Actually Begins Like This:_ **

_ Once upon a time, there was a book.  _

_ No one was happy about this.  _

* * *

Linhardt likes to think he is handling the news he’s been given with an unparalleled degree of composure and gravitas. 

Meaning, of course, that he feels as if he is about three seconds from losing any tenuous grasp he yet retains on reality and rampaging like a feral boarhound.

“What do you  _ mean _ Caspar is trapped in a storybook?” He grits out, knuckles bleached white from his grip on the library table. Part of him wants to stand up and walk straight to his bed, so he might later rise to find that everything has been resolved, Caspar laughing as he prods him into wakefulness. The rest of him wants to go lie on the ground somewhere and scream. 

Lysithea grips her hair in her hands, eyes fixed on the collected research spread before her. “I don’t  _ know!  _ Spells based in reason are formulaic! This should be—” The familiar buzz of her magic resonates for a moment, and the storybook— Caspar’s prison— glows in response, but nothing happens. “This should be  _ working! _ It’s just an extra-dimensional pocket!”

“Well, so long as it’s  _ only _ a tear in the very fabric of reality,” Linhardt drawls, fists clenching. The most frustrating aspect of this entire mess is that it’s fascinating. He’d have one thousand questions, one million suggestions if this were any other situation than one in which his best friend is trapped in a  _ literary penitentiary. _

Profesor Byleth shoots him a warning glance, and he looks away. 

“You said it’s a pocket,” the professor starts. “That means it has set limits. What are the usual boundaries of the magic?” It’s a good question. One that Linhardt should have come up with himself. He has to focus.

His eyes slide to the book on the table instead.

“The boundaries are maintained by the rules of the work,” Lysithea explains, flipping through her research journal. After a moment, she stops, pointing to a section that presumably outlines the limitations of the spell. “There’s nothing beyond the book— the characters don’t have any information that isn’t written somewhere in the pages, and you have to follow the rules set by the text.” She takes a steadying breath. “Whenever I entered a tactics textbook, it allowed for circumstances defined by the problems, even if they were unrealistic.” 

“I don’t…” Lysithea trails off, crossing her arms. “It’s always worked. The spell should release on command.”

“From the inside, you mean,” Linhardt enunciates, the words falling as sharp-edged and free of inflection as broken glass. 

“No.” Lyithea shakes her head. “That shouldn’t be an issue. The completion variable isn’t affected by whether the caster is inside or outside. Look.” She pushes her journal towards Linhardt so he can review the equations for himself. 

He forces himself to be careful, to read slowly, to let the numbers and constraints fall into place, though all he wants is to skim until some error materializes, something he can point an authoritative finger at and say, this factor, this is the problem, and have Caspar materialize a moment later. 

That isn’t how reason magic works, however. That isn’t how life works. 

He reads carefully. 

“Oh, Lysithea! I am pleased to see you made it back in one piece!” It might be minutes or hours later when Flayn’s voice breaks the terse silence that’s enveloped the library, her cheerful voice scraping against the tension like a chime against stone. 

“Oh that we all could be so lucky,” Linhardt mutters, too quiet to carry. By the way Lysithea flinches, she heard well enough.

“Ah!” Flayn rushes over upon seeing the book on the table. “Did you finish it?” She asks, eyes lighting up. 

Lysithea shrinks further into herself, her already small figure diminishing with each second, and the dark mood of the room appears to finally permeate through Flayn’s indefatigable cheer. 

“Oh,” Flayn says, folding her hands. “Did you not enjoy the book?” She laughs, but fails to sound sincere. “Fear not. I am no child. I understand that not all tastes will—”

“That’s not it,” Lysithea says, her voice pitching. She winces, then clears her throat. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get further than the first few pages, considering—”

“I do apologize.” Linhardt can’t tell who’s speaking for a moment. It feels like the world is made of heat, his spine made of fire, and there’s a rushing sound in his ears, and— his mouth is moving. “I hate to interrupt, but it sounds as if you trapped someone— you trapped a comrade, someone who trusts you with their life— in a book you _ haven’t even read. _ Though, that… That would be ridiculous. Unthinkable really.” A laugh is torn from his throat, but there is nothing happy about the sound. “It isn’t as if you’re some untrained child who can’t be trusted to look after themself, much less a sizeable portion of our allies! No, someone with thousands of lives entrusted to them would surely know—”

_ “Linhardt.” _ Professor Byleth’s interruption is quiet, but sharp. Like a dagger between the ribs. 

Linhardt hears his jaw click as he shuts his mouth. He bows his head, staring down at his clenched fists, and where he was too hot before, now he feels only cold, roiling nausea.

“Outside. Now.” Professor Byleth rises from their chair in one smooth movement, no energy wasted. Linhardt can only watch after them for a moment while he collects himself. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, after a moment. He doesn’t look at Lysithea as he stands to follow after the professor. 

Byleth is standing at the far end of the hallway when he emerges. They stare him down for a moment, then jerk their head and turn around, starting around the corner. The nausea gets worse.

It seems they won’t be having this conversation here. Whether it’s to ensure Linhardt stews in his thoughts for longer, or it’s some new form of punishment, or both, he can’t be sure, but they walk for what seems a small eternity.

When they do finally stop, it’s in front of Jeralt’s old office. 

Oh good. Linhardt’s always wanted to have the combined disapproval of his former professor and the looming specter of their father weighing on his fragile shoulders. Maybe if he’s lucky, the weight of it will kill him, saving him from the inevitable lecture. 

The professor doesn’t sit down when they enter. Instead, they shut the door behind them, and they look at him. 

The silence stretches. Linhardt crosses his arms.

“It’s her own fault that—”

“Do you truly believe she doesn’t know that.” It’s not a question. Professor Byleth’s expression is unchanging. “You’ve known Lysithea for years, Linhardt. Can you tell me, honestly, that you think she doesn’t understand the ramifications of her actions.”

Lysithea, who attacks her work with a ferocity and determination that belies a raw and excruciating fear. Lysithea, who nearly passes out from exhaustion in the library reviewing tactics every time they receive new word of fatalities. Lysithea, who internalizes every failure and repurposes it as a new plan of attack.

Lindhart looks down at his feet. The stonework in the office is in need of repair. Someone should get to work on that. 

“Caspar is her friend, too, Linhardt,” Professor Byleth says, but their voice has softened. “And if it wasn’t enough to know she’s failed him, there’s the rest of us to think about. She’s… For now, until we get Caspar back…” They sigh, shaking their head. “She has cost us one of our strongest commanders for however long he’s stuck in there. She knows what she’s done. And if she could have done anything else, she would have.” 

Linhardt opens his mouth, ready to argue that— what? That Linhardt could have done something else in her place? That he could have saved the both of them without resorting to experimental tricks? 

As much as it pains to admit it, if he had knowledge of Lysithea’s spell— if he were in her position— he likely would have done the same thing. 

“You do know you’re not our teacher anymore, yes?” Linhardt asks, finally. Arguing with Professor Byleth has never been difficult, but winning is near impossible. They’ve only ever aimed to make their students think about what they’re saying, and Linhardt has never known them to fail at that. 

“I’ll always be your teacher,” Professor Byleth says, cocking their head. “It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done.” Then, like a long awaited beam of light after ceaseless rain, they smile. 

“So,” they say, crossing their arms, “are you ready to help solve the problem, now?” 

Linhardt’s fists clench, but he nods, nonetheless. 

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Let’s get Caspar back.”

“Good.” 

When they return, it’s easy, now, to see the red rimming Lysithea’s eyes. Easier to see the way she takes a moment to breathe, more of a rattling suction than a true inhale. Easier still to see the way her hair— usually carefully arranged— is as distressed as the rest of her. 

Linhardt closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath, and crosses the room. He rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. Just for a moment.

The release of tension in Lysithea’s shoulders is dramatic and immediate, and Linhardt knows his message, apology and absolution both, has been understood. 

“One day…” Professor Byleth trails off, sighing. “One day, my students will use their words to communicate.”

“It does tend to be a more popular form of interaction than most of them tend to acknowledge, yes,” Flayn says, attempting to hide a relieved smile. 

“Rejected. Much too mortifying,” Lindhart says. He rounds the table, reclaiming his dear, restful seat at last. Oh, the joy of sitting. How he has missed it. 

“Agreed,” Lysithea sniffs, recovering some of her usual dignity. She clears her throat, sitting a little straighter. Shooting Linhardt a cautious glance, she begins to speak. 

“While you and the professor were out, Flayn and I discussed some of the more… esoteric aspects of the text. Part of the reason I had such difficulty reading it is that it’s written in an archaic Adrestian dialect that exclusively uses the narrative past tense.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Goddess. I should have realized.”

“I’m assuming that the way you said that means the situation has changed,” Professor Byleth says, as if Lysithea hasn’t turned the entire problem on its head. 

“Not the situation,” Linhardt says, shaking his head. “The variables.” 

“Exactly,” Lysithea says, pointing emphatically at her notes. “You see, the formula I used was based on the set format of the  _ texts _ I used, so it had a built-in completion variable. All of the books I went into were written in  _ perfect _ past tense, meaning that there was a set end point. They all had defined boundaries. Once they hit the end…” She closes her book, smacking the back cover. “That’s it, it’s the end. But with a story that’s written specifically in a form that’s not meant to  _ have _ an end, or uses a tense that implies the action is still continuing—”

“The formula’s completion variable is empty. It doesn’t have a way to end itself and release its hold of Caspar,” Linhardt completes. 

“So how do we fill the empty space?” Professor Byleth asks, straight to the point. 

“A new set of parameters for completion would have to be established from the inside, would it not?” Flayn frowns, wrinkling her nose. “Reason magic is always so needlessly exact.”

“Perhaps,” Byleth concedes, “but that’s the exact quality that allows for its wealth of applications.” 

“As much as I would love to debate the various benefits and drawbacks of the various disciplines of magic at our disposal, I believe we would be much better served by addressing the problem at hand,” Linhardt says, tapping the book on the table. “Flayn. You said we need to establish new parameters?”

“From the inside, yes,” Flayn says. She bites her knuckle in thought, and Linhardt has to look away. Flayn is an excellent colleague and worthy of respect, but seeing her chew on her own hand makes him want to die. “Lysithea’s already established herself as the conduit of the spell from the outside, so that part has been taken care of. Or…” She reaches over, squinting at the modified formula. “No… Wait, yes, sorry. She’ll have to stay out here, for certain.”

“And Caspar can’t meet the requirements alone?” It feels redundant to ask, considering that if Caspar could do as much, he would have done so by now; however, it’s only prudent to cover every base. 

“No,” Lysithea says, tapping a finger against her journal. “Or, he can do about half of it by himself. The completion variable requires some form of ‘completion’, so if Caspar follows a fable to its conclusion and establishes an end point, he’s met most of the criteria. However, he won’t be able to establish that as the criteria without the proper formula.”

“So, I’ll need to find Caspar in whatever tale he’s wandered into, then establish its conclusion as the new completion variable,” Linhardt says, bringing his fist to his mouth. “Simple enough. Simpler than we feared, in any case.”

“ _ Someone _ will need to, certainly,” Byleth says, eyebrows raised, as if they could possibly think that anyone other than Linhardt is suited for the task. Honestly.

“You know as well as I,  _ Professor, _ that the people in this room are more familiar with the particulars of this magic in this moment than anyone else could manage in a week’s worth of study.” Linhardt sighs, shaking his head. “Lysithea has a part to play outside of the book, and the enigmatic Miss Flayn, although more suited to the task through her familiarity with the text, is known for her constant, if unintentional, magical interference. Who knows what might happen if she were to enter an extradimensional space purely defined by the boundaries of magic.” He frowns. “The book might simply disappear, taking both her and Caspar with it.”

“I would object on principle,” Flayn says, puffing out her cheeks. “But, alas, I’m not quite sure what I would object to.” 

“Impressive evidence,” Professor Byleth says, inclining their head. “However, your case is lacking one point of address.”

Lysithea snorts, and they all turn to her, startled by the unexpected sound. 

“Professor,” she starts, crossing her arms, “you’re our primary tactician. We all know you’re not going into the book.”

“As she said. In comparison, I make the perfect sacrifice, as my team isn’t scheduled for triage duty for a good three weeks.” Linhardt stares at the professor expectantly. “Now, am I waiting for further information, or shall we dispense with formalities and get on with this?”

“I would say that I can’t believe you’re volunteering for something…” Byleth trails off, a small smile twisting the corners of their mouth. “But I won’t do your sense of loyalty, nor your scientific curiosity, such a disservice.”

Oh, if only they would. Their reliance on such things has saddled Linhardt with far too much work, historically. 

“As for that information you’re waiting on,” Lysithea starts, then opens the book of fables. “You’ll want to know where to start looking.”

“Oh!” Flayn claps, once, and the sound resounds through the library. “One moment!” She hauls her satchel up onto the table, where it squats on one of the few sections free of parchment. Everyone else present watches on in bemusement as she rifles through its contents, pausing only to place a sheet or two of paper on the table at a time. It resembles nothing more than a strange sort of ritual, and the worn, aged paper does nothing to diminish that impression. None of the pages appear to come from the same time period, much less the same stationary set. 

Finally, once a small stack of much-abused parchment and paper has been piled high on the table, Flayn places the satchel back on the floor. 

“These,” she announces, triumphant, “are my notes.”

“On… what?” Lysithea hedges, staring at the paper the same way Shamir might eye a particularly impressive specimen of insect. 

“The book, of course!” She beams. “I’ve been carrying them around, just in case I ran into you before you finished reading. I thought you might enjoy some supplemental material, of a sort.”

Curious, Linhardt reaches for the closest page of Flayn’s notes, and sure enough, her round cursive fills the page. As for whether or not any of it is actually useful… 

Well. It’s the thought that counts. Presumably. Besides, any form of cheatsheet— well organized or not— means less work for Linhardt, and that is something he gladly welcomes.

“Thank you, Flayn. This should be of great help.”

“I thought it might!” Flayn makes a tent with her hands, obviously pleased. “Now, if you get stuck in one of the tales, you have a bit of a guide!” 

One of the pages, made of thicker stationary than the paper under it, slides off the table.

Everything about this bodes well.

“To my memory, Caspar first entered this tale,” Lysithea says, recapturing the table’s attention by tapping an illustration of a forest. “However, considering how long he’s been in there, it’s likely he’s already finished it and moved onto the next.” Her brow furrows. “Scratch that. Knowing Caspar’s tendencies, he’s either been helping a side-character with a bad back chop firewood this whole time, or he’s sped through four or five of the fables by now.”

“Make it seven characters with bad backs, and we may have an accurate hypothesis,” Linhardt says. It’s easier to joke, now that they’re fixing things. Now that he knows Caspar can be rescued, there’s endless potential in the formula that’s caused this whole mess, and a new field of study is waiting for him once they both emerge. Not to mention a well-deserved rest. Perhaps several well-deserved rests in succession. 

Caspar, of course, will have to endure being made a human pillow, as is his just punishment for making Linhardt fret and— horrors upon horrors— work. 

Before then, however, Linhardt has to rescue the fool. 

The preparations are almost complete when Lysithea lets out a frustrated grunt, looking up from where she’s been trying to put Flayn’s notes in order. 

“I can’t believe I almost forgot,” Lysithea says, shaking her head. “If you see anyone familiar— aside from Caspar— that isn’t them.” She frowns down at the book of fables. “It’s like I said earlier. The magic only has access to whatever’s inside the book, so whatever it shows you has to come from somewhere, and it’s easiest to use your idea of what people or things should look like.” She taps her finger on the book. “Easier still to use whatever you’re most familiar with.”

“So it utilizes the same mechanics as dreams.” Linhardt shrugs. “I’d say I’m more than passingly familiar.” 

“I suppose if anyone would be, it would be you.” Lysithea rolls her eyes, then returns to sorting Flayn’s notes. “Just keep it in mind, alright? .

“Should I meet an illusory Lysithea who attempts to murder me, I promise not to hold it against you,” Linhardt swears.

Lysithea mutters something that would sound suspiciously like a threat to make such dreams come true, were they not working together to remedy her mistakes. Luckily, the two of them are too busy for Linhardt to respond, and the two of them manage to finish their work without initiating another fight. 

It isn’t long before there is nothing left to do but send Lindhart on his way. In fact, the magic takes much less time and effort than the preparation does. 

One moment, Linhardt is feeling the familiar hum of Lysithea’s magic buzz around him, blinking expectantly at his companions, and the next, the world is slipping away, taking his comrades with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always seems to me that reason magic is basically coding, but with reality itself. Basically, the entire premise of this fic is that one coding meme about hours of intensive labor and years of study being defeated by one Curly Boy with no friend. 
> 
> The rest of the chapters should follow over the next week or so, depending on how quickly I can finish up the last portion of the fic.


	3. The Tale of Doctor Know-All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first sat down to write this fic, I decided to give myself an extra challenge and only use folktales that I've never seen another fic use. So, first up is Doctor Know-All. 
> 
> If you want to familiarize yourself with the folktale before you read the chapter,[ you can find variations on the Doctor Know-All story here.](https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type1641.html) The story is found in a bunch of different countries, so there are a lot of differences in how it's told. Based on the really clear Germanic influences on the Adrestian Empire, I went with something close to the German version of the tale.

_ Once upon a time, there was a poor peasant. Upon seeing how the local doctor gained the respect and love of those around him, the peasant took a longing for the same things. Then and there, she decided that she would like to have been a doctor, and asked how she might go about such a thing. _

* * *

When the world once again settles around him, Linhardt becomes aware of three things. Firstly, he is no longer vertical. Secondly, the floor is cold. Thirdly, and most pressing of all, the back of his head hurts.

“Oh goodness. Are you quite alright?” A high, breathy voice asks, and, master of deduction that he is, Linhardt adds a fourth item to his list of observations: his eyes are closed. 

“Aside from my head, I’m doing just fine,” Linhardt responds. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet. If life has taught him anything, it is that if he is given the opportunity to lay down with his eyes closed, he had best take it while he can. Besides, it gives him all the more time to determine his role in the story.

Considering the roster of characters in any given tale, it would be just as easy to assume he’s taken on the duties of some integral protagonist in the midst of being robbed as it is to conclude he’s displaced some unfortunate bystander with a hangover. Either way, Linhardt’s managed to incur an injury within seconds of arriving.

The hand of fortune is unquestionably with him today, and it is doing its best to shove him down a flight of stairs. 

“You did take a bit of a tumble, I’m afraid.” The soft voice laughs, and it grows more familiar with each passing second. “Are you able to track my finger with your eyes?”

“Presumably,” Linhardt replies. 

There is a beat of silence. 

“I would need you to open your eyes, first,” the voice says, and the steel in it brooks no argument. The cheery, breezy quality remains, but it’s shaped around an unshakable core, like an iron bar wrapped in a feather pillow.

Well. The three seconds of rest Linhardt obtained were enjoyable enough, he supposes. He sighs, opens his eyes, and sees Mercedes staring down at him. 

“Hello there,” she says, smiling at him. “Well! Your pupils certainly appear reactive, but who can tell, these days.” She holds up a finger. “Please follow my hand without moving your head, if you would.”

Stunned, Linhardt complies. The whole procedure is the same as when he wakes in triage on the battlefield, Mercedes shaking her head at him before she repeats the same old ritual. Left. Right. Up. Right. Down. Left. Up. And, as always— 

“It seems your brain is keeping a strong hold on your eyes, at least.”

Fascinating. Lysithea did say that characters within the book would take on the appearances of their friends, but it hadn’t occurred to him that they might also adopt their mannerisms. 

Hm. That would imply that Linhardt— consciously or unconsciously— has made note of enough of his companions mannerisms that his brain could naturally extrapolate their most likely responses to any given situation. Then again, Caspar is also within the bounds of the book, which may have a considerable impact on the contents. Perhaps, with both of their collective perceptions working in concert— 

“I do hope you aren’t actually concussed,” Mercedes says, frowning. “But the longer you go without replying, the more I worry.”

“Ah, yes,” Linhardt says, realizing he’s still lying down. “My apologies.” He sits up and begins to brush the dust from his clothes, then stops. Why is he wearing servant’s attire?

From his discussion with Lysithea, Flayn, and the Professor, he was under the impression that all of his belongings would accompany him in transport. If he is somehow meant to navigate this book without the notes—

He can’t bear to consider it.

“If you’re searching for your bag, it’s right here,” Mercedes says, and the shape next to her is indeed familiar. “I didn’t want you to strangle yourself with it by accident.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Linhardt breathes, barely holding his relief in check. “I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

“Is that so?” Mercedes says, looking down at the bag with a strange, unfamiliar expression. “Hm. Well, that is interesting.” 

“...Is it.” Linhardt isn’t sure he enjoys the direction this conversation is heading. “In any case, I do apologize for keeping you in suspense for so long. I was contemplating something quite intensely, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you do have much to consider,” Mercedes allows. As enigmatic and nonsensical as that statement is, she continues. “However, I didn’t think my proposition was shocking enough for you to faint.”

“I’d argue differently,” another familiar voice interjects, and, ah, they have company. Linhardt hadn’t noticed at first, but there certainly are two other people in the room. Neither of them Caspar.

Perhaps there’s more merit to Mercedes’ shelved prognosis than originally thought. That, or Linhardt has absolutely no capacity to sense others’ presence. Either explanation bodes ill. To be fair, the room _ is _ rather dark, lit as it is by only a few lamps that are burning lower by the second. Still. Linhardt should be more vigilant than this— he’s fought in battlefields, for Goddess’ sake. 

Ignorant of Linhardt’s crisis of faith in himself, the two figures exchange a long glance that belies both extensive familiarity and an intense, silent conversation. Then, sighing, they step into the light. 

Ashe and Leonie, both in servant’s dress, stoop down to help Linhardt to his feet. 

“We may as well take her up on the offer,” Ashe says, voice low. He brushes some dust off of Linhardt’s shoulders. “She’s as good as omniscient.”

“I still don’t know if I believe that,” Leonie objects, frowning as she tugs at the edge of her gloves. “This could all be a trick.” 

“She knew where I was hiding, Leonie.” Ashe shakes his head. “Besides, she was able to pick you two out from all the rest of the servants. We have more to lose from telling her no than agreeing.”

This is, perhaps, the part where Linhardt is supposed to have an opinion on the matter. Knowing the standard structure of fables, his opinion might even be final: the last bit of input needed to direct the course of the entire story.

The problem, of course, is that Linhardt has no fucking clue what’s happening.

Oh, he could hazard a guess. He knows which tale Lysithea sent him into, after all, and that the general gist of it is that the protagonist that stumbles into the reputation of knowing all through pretending to be a physician. From that, he can extrapolate Mercedes’ role readily enough. 

Anything past that, however, is beyond him. 

“I would very much like my belongings back before I make any decisions,” Linhardt says, partly to stall, and partly because Flayn’s notes would be much-appreciated right about now. 

“For what purpose, may I ask?” Mercedes eyes are sharp. 

“I am what you might call a pious man,” Linhardt lies. He has to clear his throat to cover the sound of Leonie snorting behind him. “It’s in my manner to consult with scripture before committing to major decisions.”

“And you carry this scripture around on your person?” Mercedes sizes him up, smile never leaving her face.

“I _ did _ just mention my devout nature,” Linhardt says. That bit isn’t even technically much of a lie. He _ is _ a certified bishop. The source of his belief is simply... unorthodox in nature. Bordering on heresy, if one wants to be specific, but, well, isn’t that just the way. 

Without warning, Ashe trips and stumbles into Linhardt, catching himself on his shoulder. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, voice loud and apologetic. Then, whispered directly in Linhardt’s ear, “What in the Saints’ names are you up to?” 

“I only want some guidance,” Linhardt says aloud, and that, for once, is the unembellished truth.

Mercedes stares at him for a long moment, her expression as clear and unbothered as water in summer. As dangerous, too.

“Fair enough,” she says at last, handing him his satchel. “Here you are.” 

If Linhardt were anyone else, he might find the weight of his companions’ stares unnerving. Fortunately, he’s unparalleled in the art of ignoring others’ presence while reading. Having Caspar for a friend made that a necessity by the time they’d turned eight.

Flayn’s notes on this particular story are rather sparse, but it’s enough to grasp the situation’s particulars. Linhardt, Ashe, and Leonie appear to be thieves in this tale— servants who have stolen and hidden their master’s gold. 

Hm. Should Linhardt be insulted that he was cast as a thief? 

Well… He is here to steal Caspar back, in a fashion. Although, it was the book that stole him first. Perhaps it’s fitting. Regardless, it gives him leave to lean into the role a little bit. He’s never had the opportunity to use some of the more duplicitous or shady sayings he’s read in his books, and he’s been dying for an excuse to try them out.

Although… hmm. Most of them do have violent connotations. That won’t do at all. 

He’ll just have to workshop something as he— Oh, Goddess, he’s let his attention wander. There’s no time to think of witty repartee before he’s finished reading about what he needs to do. 

Fortunately, it takes only a moment to read the rest of the relevant notes. Their dear Doctor Know-All stumbled her way into discovering their ruse, and, if Flayn is to be believed, the only way to escape hanging is to agree to show her where they’ve hidden the gold.

Charming. But straightforward enough. With any luck, any other tales Linhardt has to move through will share this undemanding simplicity. 

Linhardt knows better than to rely on luck.

“I concede,” he says, shouldering his bag once more. “After making proper consultation, it appears that there is nothing more to do than admit your advantage.”

“Really?” Leonie sounds uncertain, and her eyes flicker between Linhardt and where he has stashed his notes. “I don’t know that we should give up without—”

“Leonie, she knew we did it just by looking at us,” Ashe interrupts. He sighs. “We’re as good as hanged if we don’t agree.” 

“It’s her word against ours,” Leonie argues, setting her jaw. 

“And we’re disposable,” Linhardt says, voice flat. He has no desire to see whether being killed by a book has any staying power. “I don’t know about you, Leonie, but I would rather keep my neck than the gold. I say we give it to the good doctor, let her open an orphanage or what-have-you with her newfound wealth, and escape with our lives intact.”

Mercedes’ look feels like a brand when she stares at him, illuminating every inch of his expression and burning as it goes. 

“Hm.” At last, she looks away, humming to herself. “That is, in fact, what I was planning to do.” She laughs, softly. “Although, I’m unsure as to how you uncovered that for yourself. Are you, too, omniscient?” Her voice pitches up playfully at the end. 

“If only,” Linhardt says, unnerved. He wasn’t expecting the characters in the story to be so… reactive. Even if they are modelled off of his companions, he had assumed they’d be caricatures or figments, playing their parts in the mechanism of the tale, mindlessly moving along. Not whatever… this is. 

“I simply extrapolated. What else is there for a doctor to do, other than good works?”

“I’m so glad you agree,” Mercedes says, a calm evaluation paired with a smile. 

“If…” Leonie sighs, knitting her hands together. She looks Mercedes in the eye, expression set in determination. “If that is the case— if you _ promise _that you’ll do good with the money, then I’ll agree. As long as it doesn’t go back to that bastard.” She spits, and Linhardt may not know who the noble heading this fictitious fiefdom might be, but he must be heinous to prompt that much venom. Hopefully, Linhardt won’t have to actually meet him to bring the tale to completion. 

“Agreed,” Mercedes says, inclining her head, and that is all Linhardt needs to hear. He can leave the rest to the cast of the tale. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he can relax.

Linhardt stifles a yawn. He’ll likely get in trouble if he’s caught dozing before the story concludes, and he can’t risk things going off track so close to the end. How tiresome. 

The second he finds Caspar, he’s falling asleep on the man. Worrying about him has robbed Linhardt of enough sleep that he deserves a good thirty-six hour nap or two, and the effort of finding him has added on exponential interest. The least Caspar can do in return is lend his services as a pillow, so Linhardt can hear the strong tempo of his heartbeat and feel the way his chest rises, reassurance that the both of them live and breathe.

Until then, he’ll just have to endure. Ugh. He can think of few things worse. 

“Hello there.” 

“Hm?” Linhardt is startled into awareness by a gentle tap on his arm. He blinks around, but Leonie and Ashe are no longer in the room. 

“As I thought,” Mercedes says. She covers her mouth with her hand as she laughs. “You did seem a world away while we were working out the details.” Her smile is as gentle as her eyes are sharp. “I will say, it’s rather unusual to see someone so unconcerned about their fate.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m more invested in my continued wellbeing than most could assert.” Linhardt shakes his head, snorting.

“You certainly don’t act like it.”

“Let’s just say I have a certain proficiency in reading people, shall we,” Linhardt says, unable to help himself. He may be the only audience for his joke, but that doesn’t make it any less funny. 

“And what might that mean?” Mercedes hedges, her hands coming to rest at her sides, gripping the fabric they find there. 

“I don’t much enjoy beating around the bush, so I won’t.” Linhardt shrugs. “You never intended to let us hang, even if we didn’t tell you where the gold was.” Actually… That brings up a new angle to this situation. He crosses his arms, biting his lip in thought. “So, why the farce?”

It isn’t as if Mercedes is overly concerned with money in the real world, and if her storybook equivalent is anything like her, that would remain the same. What motivation would she have to oust a few thieves?

“Ah.” Strangely enough, Mercedes relaxes, rather than further tensing. “So that’s it.” She sighs, then crosses the storeroom to the wall across from him, pulling herself into a sitting position atop one of the barrels. 

“That ‘farce’, as you call it, prevented a hanging.” She says, making an illustrative gesture to accompany the words. “The lord of this house would have determined who stole his gold soon enough, and he is not a forgiving man. I should think you would know that well.”

Fair enough, if Linhardt had the knowledge and life of whatever character he’d displaced. 

“My motives are straightforward, really,” Mercedes continues. “Save whatever lives I can and obtain enough funding to save more. Yours, on the other hand...” She cocks her head. “Shall we address the redwolf in the room?”

Linhardt’s blood runs cold. She cannot possibly know he doesn’t belong here. She only _ seems _ omniscient, or so the fable goes. She can’t really know everything. 

“You obviously never cared for the gold, if you agreed to my terms despite knowing I wouldn’t turn you in,” Mercedes says. “So why?”

“Oh, that.” Linhardt relaxes, rolling his eyes. “I need to find someone, and gold won’t help me with that.” He smiles to himself. “I suppose many might find it funny— or, no, they’d rather say infuriating, I believe— that I’ve chosen one over the other multiple times now, but, well…” Spreading his arms wide in supplication, he shrugs. “As troublesome as chasing after him is, I’ve long since made my choice.”

Strangely enough, Mercedes eyes light up.

“Oh!” She claps her hands together, then scrambles to her feet. “You must be Lin!”

Linhardt freezes. To his memory, neither Leonie or Ashe called him by name, so the only other option must be… No. No, there might be others. He has to be sure.

“How did you know that nickname?” Linhardt asks. 

“I’m Doctor Know-All,” Mercedes says, eyes glittering with mirth. 

“You know that I know that’s…” He sighs. “I believe the polite way of saying it would be ‘absurd’.” 

“Yes, but it’s very fun to see the way you react.” Mercedes shakes her head, smiling. “The reality is fairly simple. A man passed through my practice a while back, looking for advice. I helped him as much as I could, and he told me stories in turn.” She laughs. “He said quite a bit about his dear friend, Lin, although he did neglect to mention the thievery.” 

“Why would he have mentioned me?” Linhardt asks, bewildered. Caspar would have had much more to contemplate than Linhardt, if he’d realized he was trapped. If he hadn’t, then… well, he still would have had more to contend with. It would make no sense to go around, telling random characters about people they would never encounter. Or, well, _ should _ have never encountered. 

Furthermore, what could he possibly have said to indicate that Linhardt could be identified by the simple act of _ looking for someone? _Plenty of people have to be searching for someone else each day! 

“So it is you,” Mercedes says, clasping her hands together. “I had a good feeling, but you never know for sure.” She looks to the side, obviously working to recall the details of her interaction with Caspar. Frankly, Linhardt’s shocked the magic allows her to remember him at all, if he'd already passed through the tale. 

“I would say your friend had good reason to mention you, considering he was right about you coming to find him,” Mercedes says. She sighs, shaking her head. “Oh, Mercy, you’re hopeless sometimes,” she chides herself. “He went through all that trouble of describing you, and I only just remembered when you mentioned searching for him. Though, to be fair, he said quite a lot of things. It’s hard to keep it all straight,” she says.

“What exactly did Caspar say?” Linhardt asks.

“Oh, all kinds of things. Not much of it made sense, but he was very charming about it.” She smiles. “At first, he was rather stuck on the idea of making ‘experiment’ a new oath or blaspheme, but after all of that…” She shrugs. “He settled down quickly enough. Apparently, there was ‘no use whining,’ since, ‘Lin’ll be here soon enough.’”

“That—” That makes no sense. _ Caspar _ makes no sense. The usual assumption would be that Lysithea would come and find him. After all, she was the one that cast the spell. Why would Caspar have assumed— What could possibly lead him to believe _ Linhardt _would be the one to come rescue him?

Although, considering the current situation...

Linhardt snorts, looking down at himself. What a question to ask while in the middle of the anticipated rescue mission. Honestly. If the next tale contains any trace of a court jester, Linhardt should prepare to jingle miserably through the text. No one else would better suit the role.

“The examination of your head should have given it away, really,” Mercedes muses. “I did think your hairstyle was rather nice— fortunate too, since it likely saved you from extensive head trauma— but I didn’t think of Caspar’s story about the ribbon until just now.”

“How— Did Caspar tell you his entire life story?” Linhardt splutters. “That was— He gave it to me almost two decades ago! Why would he still be telling strangers about it!”

“I don’t mean to be intrusive,” Mercedes says, like someone who fully intends to be intrusive, “but that question doesn’t bear much weight coming from someone who is still wearing said ribbon, does it?”

There is a beat of silence.

“Well, would you look at how low the lamps have burned,” Linhardt says, not looking at the lamps. “I believe we may have overstayed our welcome. Best we get on with business, don’t you think?” He starts walking towards the door. 

“I _ am _ glad that he was right to believe in you,” Mercedes says, and Linhardt stops with his hand on the door. “It’s easy to think someone would bring down the sun to warm you, but…” She sighs. “It’s much harder to find someone willing to do so.”

Linhardt can’t help but snort at that. He turns his head just enough to look back at her.

“Caspar knows I won’t do anything I don’t want to, much less something beyond my abilities. He wouldn’t ask in the first place.”

Mercedes smiles.

“I never said anything to the contrary.”

Linhardt makes a face, then opens the door, stepping through it as he goes.

It isn’t as if he doesn’t know he’s in love with Caspar, but people aren’t supposed to comment on it. _ Especially _ characters in a book, wearing costumes made from Linhardt’s own impressions and understandings of his friends. Not only is it a rude and invasive line of conversation, it’s a strange and unnerving form of interrogation co-directed by his own mind, and that cannot stand. 

Luckily, it doesn’t. Or at least, not for long.

Linhardt’s stomach plummets, the way it does when he’s being carried by a forceful buffet of wind magic, and a low roar fills his ears, which is strange for multiple reasons. Crossing the threshold didn’t feel like the end of the fable. He was sure there were still some loose ends to tie up, at the very least. He didn’t even have time to think of some suitably portentous line to toss out with a casual air, ending the tale in style.

Oh well.

Linhardt allows himself to relax. If the story wants to aid his mission with as little effort on his part as possible, then he won’t be the one to stop it. Investigating the principles behind the magic at work or coming up with the perfect witty remark can come later, when both he and Caspar are safe on the other side of the book’s pages. For now, he has a best friend to find, and that comes before anything else. 

He was telling the truth to Mercedes. When it comes to Caspar, he made his choice a long time ago.


	4. The Name of The Helper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recognize this next fable as a variation on Rumpelstiltskin. It's closer to some other adaptations I've read, but, eh. What is fanfic for if not to synthesize like eight different versions of a fable and then throw a fire emblem character into the mix

_Once upon a time, there was a peasant whose task it was to spin a certain quantity of flax every day. However, they could never complete their work._   
  


* * *

  
When Linhardt opens his eyes, he’s standing upright in a forest. A rather heavy handaxe is slung across his shoulders, and it appears to be sometime in the late morning. It’s not a time of day he’s often familiar with, but it’s at least bright enough to see by. 

Linhardt gingerly removes the axe from its resting place, then, once it’s in a less perilous position, allows gravity to do the rest of the work. The tool makes a satisfying noise as it hits the ground: a soft thud, cushioned by the wet grass.

“Well,” Linhardt says, dusting off his palms. “I hope I don’t need that for anything.”

It isn’t as if hanging onto it would do Linhardt any good. He’s never been proficient with weaponry, axes least of all. Really, if anyone should have the dubious honor of wielding an axe in this tale, it should be Caspar.

Linhardt squints down at the axe, nudging at it with the toe of his boot. Caspar _ would _ get more use out of it, should they run into one another in this story, but… Lugging the thing around is a daunting prospect. Urgh. Lugging it around without assurance that Caspar’s even _ here, _ even _ . _

All it takes to make Linhardt’s decision is remembering how heavy the axe felt across his shoulders. It isn’t likely that he'll be able to rest any time soon, and he has no earthly idea where the nearest town is. Besides, axe or no axe, Caspar can punch through walls. 

After a brief survey of the area, Linhardt concludes he doesn’t know how to survey the area. Generally, he’s either stationed with navigators on his team, or, at the very least, given a map, and when he has the misfortune of being deprived of both, he can at least look at the sky and conclude that if the sun’s setting on his right, he’s facing South. 

Unfortunately, he’s materialized in the middle of a storybook forest with no set geography other than a wealth of _ very _ large trees, all dead-set on foiling any attempts to determine the exact position of the sun. Even if he knew which cardinal direction he was facing, it wouldn’t do him any good. He may as well choose a random position and walk, wandering forever with the vague apprehension that some forgotten fact about the way moss grows might prove helpful, should he ever remember—

Wait a moment. Is that smoke?

Linhardt blinks up at the curling trail of smoke above the treeline. From the look of it, it’s an intentional, small thing, likely set in a fireplace. Fortunate, as Linhardt has long-since ranked perishing in a forest fire as his seventh least-favorite way to die. 

Linhardt presses a finger to his forehead in thought. He may have a potential destination now, but that still leaves the question of how leaving the area in which he materialized is going to affect things. Will the axe disappear? Will the clearing he appeared in disappear? The magic sustains the inner boundaries of the tale he inhabits, but is that true for all of it, or does it only concentrate on maintaining certain areas at a time? 

Pulling out his research journal from his satchel, Linhardt makes some notations. Whatever the case may be, he’ll be able to consult with Lysithea about more of the spell’s particulars once he and Caspar emerge from the book. In the meantime…

Linhardt frowns at the trees around him, then exchanges his notebook for a much less-familiar tool. The grip of the knife in his hand is too comfortable for how little he’s held it, but such is the way with tools. They’re meant to be used, whether or not one wants to. 

In any case, it isn’t as if he’s doing anything nefarious with it. If he expects to test any hypotheses, or, horror among horrors, find his way back to retrieve the two-tonne axe, then he needs to track his path.

The intent to score every tree he passes dissipates the second he realizes making a mark on wood is just as arduous in fiction as it is in real life. Rather than a nonchalant flick of the wrist that gouges wood in seconds, it takes a great deal of scraping the same area over and over until Linhardt’s wrist starts complaining with the same volume and intensity of Hilda being told to weed the courtyard. It proves much more intuitive to use the tried-and-true method of putting in minimal effort in and employing a strategy Linhardt likes to call, ‘Only Mark A New Tree if The Last One’s Barely Visible’. 

Will this cause problems for Linhardt in the future? Almost definitely. 

Is it saving him from wasting time and energy now? Absolutely, which makes it a trade Linhardt is more than willing to make. 

He’s making yet another mark to track his path when the singing starts.

Linhardt would not call himself a birdsong aficionado. He would not even go as far as to say he appreciates the sound as much as the average person. More often than not, the chirping of birds outside his window has served as an all-too-cheerful reminder that he has, once again, stayed up so late that it had wrapped itself around into rising early, and the last dregs of his energy would vanish in a matter of hours. 

That said, he’s familiar enough with the sounds birds make to form an opinion on what makes them pleasing to the ear..

Whatever is emerging from the bird nearby is many things. It is _ not _ pleasing. 

The sound shrieks upwards like the clash of Caspar’s steel gauntlets against armor, then plummets. An answering staccato stutters out a moment later, as if the same bird is attempting to compose a counterpoint to its original melody and failing fantastically. 

And then it starts to sing _ words. _

_ “Happy day, Happy day! That no one knows of Metodey!” _

“Oh, Goddess no,” Linhardt whispers. He’s been a passable person in the twenty-and-change years he’s been alive. He’s done enough good in the world that he shouldn’t have to listen to amateur lyricism from a magic bird. 

Yes, fine, fables are simply like this sometimes. He understands that much. Sometimes animals sing and there is nothing anyone can do about it, especially not the poor nursemaid tasked with reading all of the lines and giving the characters special voices for the entertainment of their young charge.

That said, Linhardt has never and will never desire to be kept hostage as someone sings at him. 

_ “Guess my name or pay the price! Eaten alone or cooked with rice! Happy day, oh, happy day! That no one knows of Metodey!” _

What, Linhardt wants to know, is the moral of a story where an antagonistic creature just goes around singing their own name? What is to be learned? If one wants to go far in life, they had best listen to bad improvisation? Any mystery can be solved by being in the right place at the right time?

That last one appears to be the moral of the last fable, so perhaps the entire book is about entrusting one’s livelihood to circumstance. Allow things to happen without interference and pretend to know everything, so sayeth the Goddess! 

No wonder such fables are so popular amongst the nobility.

Linhardt sheathes his knife. With the introduction of a carnivorous, cacophonous bird, it makes no sense to waste time marking the trees. He has no intention of hanging around in the open any longer than he absolutely has to. When he charted “being eaten alive” on his list of least favorable ways to die, he had thought it would be at the hands and maw of a demonic beast, not a bloodthirsty bird who sings its own name, but he still thinks it’s deserving of its place in the upper ten entries. 

Linhardt attempts to be as quiet as possible as he rushes through the forest, not that it matters. The bird carries on so loudly that it would be near impossible to hear anything else. Still, caution often pays dividends. He’s tried to tell Caspar as much before, but, well... it’s hard to sell a man a flask if he lives on a river, and Caspar’s managed well enough without a sense of self-preservation that he’s never seen a need for it. The fact that the both of them are in this situation is proof enough of that.

Not that he need worry; Linhardt has enough of it for the both of them, and he’ll prove it the second he frees the both of them from this storybook. He should probably think of something to say when he does so, actually. Something suitably suave and blasé. 

Hm. It seems this tale is at its end? No. That has a strange, fatalistic connotation. Another chapter drawn to its close? Perhaps, but not quite suitable. 

What about—

Linhardt’s musings are cut short by a sudden confrontation between his face and the ground. 

“Oh, gosh! Are you okay?”

“Broadly speaking?” Linhardt barely bothers to lift his head. If the other person doesn’t hear, that’s their own concern. The fact that he’s speaking at all should serve as its own answer. “I appear to have been cursed to make closer acquaintance with the ground than I’d like. Aside from that...”

He looks up, and the rest of his sentence falls out of his head. The world is awash with pink. Or, so it seems, what with the full force of the sun shining through and bouncing off of Hilda’s borderline luminescent hair. Talking with her in direct sunlight always has been a challenge.

“Oh, it’s you.” Linhardt says, pulling himself to his feet. Anyone else might have been convinced to lend him a hand. Hilda… is already sitting back down on the nearby porch. Of course she is. 

“I’ve always wondered,” Linhardt says, starting to brush the dirt off his clothes before realizing they’ll likely change into something else the second he skips off to the next tale. Not worth the effort, then. “Does the hair serve as a tactical advantage? For you or your brother, I suppose. If the enemy can’t see, they can’t hit you, after all.” 

“Oh, wait.” He smacks a fist against his palm as Hilda squints at him, uncomprehending. This is a different person entirely from the Hilda he knows: just a storybook character. “Disregard that. You have no clue what I’m saying.”

“You got that one right, at least?” Hilda smiles in the way people smile at children in danger of throwing tantrums, or dogs that might attempt to pee on visiting emissaries. Linhardt might be insulted if he hadn’t started the whole mess by rattling off apparent nonsense. Or if he had any real sense of pride or dignity in the first place. Luckily for them both, he’s never cared for such frivolities. 

“So… Not that it isn’t great to have company,” Hilda starts. “And you’ve been really entertaining in the three seconds we’ve known each other, and all. But, um… Why are you here, exactly?”

“I was chopping wood,” Linhardt responds. 

“Without an axe?” Hilda has a very unique way of looking skeptical while smiling, her eyes darting to share a joke with someone who isn’t present, as if there’s an invisible audience who will find this entire situation hilarious. Seeing that expression replicated out of context, while they interact as strangers, is…

Well. It’s odd, to say the least. Discomfiting. 

The more friends Linhardt encounters who aren’t friends at all— facsimiles that act and sound like the people he knows and tolerates, but display none of the familiar warmth— the more his stomach twists with some unquantifiable discomfort. 

He shudders to think how much worse this must have been for Caspar. 

“Uh, hello?” Hilda waves a hand. “I was kinda expecting an answer here, y’know.”

“Ah, yes,” Linhardt replies, snapping out of his thoughts. He needs to concentrate on the task at hand if he’s going to do Caspar any good. “The axe. I dropped it in my haste,” he says. 

“You did seem to be in a hurry, tripping over yourself like that,” Hilda says, frowning. “Was something chasing you?” 

“You could say that.” It isn’t a lie. Hilda _ did _ say that, in fact. “In truth, my ears were at more risk than anything else. Some horrible creature back there is shrieking about devouring whomever he comes across, so I decided it would be best to take my leave before he found the chance. I never much cared for being eaten. Or listening to improvisational tunes, at that.” 

“Oh, _ that _jackass,” Hilda says, relaxing. “I wouldn’t worry about that. He only eats you if you break a deal with him.” She yawns, waving a hand. 

“A deal?” Goddess. Caspar couldn’t have entered into a hasty agreeme— Oh, who is Linhardt kidding? Of course he could. He’s all too willing to make promises with anyone who asks.

“You haven’t seen a boisterous man with turquoise hair make such a deal, have you?” Linhardt brings his first to his mouth in thought. “He’s only a little shorter than I am, but broader, and more prone to challenging people to brawls.” 

With any luck, Caspar won’t have made any such deal at all. Still, considering the prior experience with Mercedes, he _ will _ have passed through the area, at the very least. Perhaps he’s even waiting inside the small cottage, having a cup of tea.

“He doesn’t _ sound _ familiar,” Hilda says, shattering the nascent fantasy before it even forms. She taps a finger against her chin. “But I haven’t really run into anyone in this part of the forest aside from my brother and…” She waves a dismissive hand towards the forest. _ “That.” _

Linhardt feels his breath stutter in his lungs. Where could Caspar be if not here? Is he lost in the woods with that thing?

If it pretended to be hurt, or that it needed help, Caspar might take the deal without thinking. He could be bound by some form of magic, trapped, and no matter how strong he might be, he’d— 

“I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, though,” Hilda says, voice dropping into something soothing and slow. “Sure, the thing’s a bit of an opportunist, but his focus is _ way _ too narrow.” She smiles, projecting reassurance. “Trust me, I’m in way more danger of getting eaten than you or your friend are.” 

“And why— why is that?” Linhardt asks, struggling to get his breathing under control. If he strains, he can summon a memory of Caspar, his hands too-warm on Linhardt’s arms as he tells him to ‘breathe slow, Lin, slow, like when you’re falling asleep’. 

“Glad to see that’s your first concern,” Hilda says. She laughs. “Most people would jump to defend a delicate flower after she said something like that, you know.”

“You and I…” Linhardt clears his throat, gathering himself. “You and I both know that I’m far more delicate than you,” he finishes, gesturing between Hilda’s well-defined arms and his… admittedly less impressive assets. 

“You _ do _ seem pretty fragile for a woodsman.” Hilda shrugs. “Can’t judge people by how they look, though. For instance, you seem honest enough, but, heym you just contradicted your own story with the axe, huh?” Her eyes sharpen as she speaks, dangerous and flinty as her real-life counterpart’s weapons. 

“Not at all,” Linhardt says, shaking his head. “My friend is usually responsible for the more labor-intensive work when we travel together. I’m simply a tagalong, there to care for him when he falters.”

Hilda hums, cocking her head. Then, after a moment, she leans further back on the porch, staring up at the sky. 

“Yeah, I’ll believe that,” she says, finally. “You do seem pretty worried about him.”

“I am.” It’s simple, and it isn’t enough to encompass the storm brewing in Linhardt’s stomach: the nausea,the throbbing, empty ache of promised Somedays flickering in and out of existence every moment that he doesn’t know Caspar is safe, but... What words would? It may be simple, but it has to suffice. 

“I wasn’t lying about him probably being fine, if it helps,” Hilda says. “The Helper— that’s the creature’s title, kind of— is really, really determined. It won’t change targets if it’s hungry.” She snorts. 

“And it’s targeting… you?” 

“I’m not naive enough to make a deal until I know I have the upper-hand,” Hilda says, snorting. “So we’re kind of at a stalemate.” She shrugs.

“I need help spinning my flax, and he knows it. He eats people who can’t guess his name, and I know it. So! No deal. But the pressure’s getting…” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, I know I’m lazy. But the trade quotas for how much I need to spin? Ridiculous. And it’s only getting worse.” 

“Hold one moment,” Linhardt says, eyebrows furrowing. “You only need the creature’s name?” 

“Pretty much?” Hilda puffs out her cheeks. “But it’s not like it’s easy information. Lots of people have died trying to guess it, and I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to be one of them.” 

“Ah.” Linhardt winces. “Although it is a pity that so many lost their lives, you appear to be in luck. Your ‘Helper’ back there was singing his own name in the forest. Quite badly, too. Prideful fool.”

Hilda blinks at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a Teutates pike, stunned to be caught above water. 

“Are you for real?”

“Indeed.” Linhardt nods. “If I recall correctly, his name is Metodey.”

In the same instant that Hilda’s eyes light up, the world begins to dim. Whatever she says is garbled, like she’s speaking underwater, and the all-too-familiar buzz of Lysithea’s magic is too distracting for him to catch any of the words. 

But that— That doesn’t make sense. Does it? He didn’t complete the story, did he? 

All he did was tell Hilda the information she— Was that all he needed to do? Was that his only role in the story? 

But what about Caspar? 

Linhardt tries to hold onto the tale, trying to keep the shape of it fixed in his mind, trying to believe that it’s still here enough to activate his Faith magic, but… the equation is exact, and there are no gaps in the Reason left for Faith to fill.

This isn’t_ fair. _ If Linhardt had known he only had to fulfill certain criteria, that the entire tale wasn’t his responsibility, then he would have held off on playing his part until he had searched the whole forest for Caspar. It isn’t— 

No. Worse. It _ is _ fair, and that is the cruelest component of this entire disaster. He had all the facts. Flames, he had a cheat sheet, for Seiros’ sake. He should have known better.

What else could he have deduced from the last fable? Caspar had clearly passed through without completing the tale! That role had been left to Linhardt. He should have known, and double-checked, and applied his knowledge. What is the use of his research and experimentation if he forgets all the basic principles the second it matters?

As it is, who knows whether he’s still chasing after Caspar, or if Linhardt has passed him by entirely? 

This plan was ridiculous. They could be chasing each other for a century, round and round and round through the fables without ever seeing each other again. Trapped. 

As the world finishes dissolving around him, all Linhardt can think is that Mercedes— no, the character wearing Mercedes like a costume— had gravely misspoken in her assumption. 

Caspar hadn’t been right to trust that Linhardt would find him. He’d never been more wrong in his life. 

But, capable or not, worthy of that trust or not, one thing remains the same: Linhardt will keep trying anyway. He will never stop trying when it comes to Caspar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but Caspar's finally crashing the party next go-around, which means you can expect a Very, Very Long chapter in the near future


	5. Bisclavret, or The Werewolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's loosely based on Bisclavret, which is a lais by Marie de France. I've modified it to be a less weird about women and also so Linhardt doesn't have to be nobility again. You're welcome, Lin. 
> 
> Anyway, time for Caspar to show up! Here's a monster-length chapter.

_ Long ago, the tales were told— _

_ Of what had happened, in days of old— _

_ Of when men had become garwolves, _

_ And set up housekeeping in the woods. _

* * *

When the world resolves itself around him, Linhardt is hunched over a bar, tankard in hand. It seems the magic of the tale decided to cast him as a maudlin fool in need of a drink.

Fortunate. He need not strain himself to fit that particular role.

Linhardt considers the beverage for a moment, swirling the beer about in the basin. He isn’t usually one to drown his sorrows, but if the drink is already in hand, then who is he to refuse the balm? Besides, it might not even do the work of intoxicating him, considering he hasn’t had to eat or drink the entire time he’s been traversing the pages of the story. His biological functions could easily be at a standstill.

Then again, the lack of food could mean a few meager sips will end with him well and truly sloshed.

Well. Nothing like an experiment to raise one’s spirits. 

Linhardt lifts the tankard to his mouth, then splutters the second the liquid— for lack of a better word— passes his lips. Watered-down piss would be too generous a description. It’s almost impressive; what with the war’s rationing, Linhardt had thought he had already claimed the dubious pleasure of tasting the worst beer in existence. 

His mistake to assume there’s anything in existence that cannot, given time, prove to be much worse. 

“Ah, so you were here all along!” The boom of a familiar voice punctuates the creak and swing of the tavern’s heavy door, and Linhardt is not the only person at the bar to groan. 

“What’ve I told you about bellowin’ the second you step onto my property, boy?” The barkeep asks. It’s a relief that he’s barely familiar— a face Linhardt knows he’s seen, but not often enough to name. 

In contrast, the unforgettable cadence of one Ferdinand von Aegir is drilling a hole in Linhardt’s skull. Linhardt closes his eyes, allowing himself to slump onto the bar. He doesn’t want to see another phantom of a friend. Not right now. 

“I do apologize, sir, but I think you will find most individuals more receptive to your requests when you address them by name,” Ferdinand replies, balancing cheerful presumption with a certain brand of self-consciousness that only he and certain breeds of herding dogs can manage. 

“And I’ll call you by your name when you stop torturing every hungover soul this side of the continent,” the barkeep grumbles. “Least y’could do is spare a little mercy for your friend here.” 

“Believe me, no one could accuse me of parsimony in that regard,” Ferdinand says, sighing as he lowers himself onto the stool next to Linhardt. “He’s indulged a fair bit already.” Warmth rises off Ferdinand in waves, the same way it always does, and for a second, it’s easy to believe he’s real. 

As long as Linhardt keeps his eyes closed, it’s like one of his friends is actually there to keep him company. 

Then, of course, Ferdinand goes right back to monologuing. 

“You cannot keep treating yourself like this, Linhardt,” he says, and the forceful shake of his head sends some of his long hair smacking against Linhardt’s back. “I know that it’s disheartening for a dear companion to be gone this long, but he would not want you to just… wallow.” 

There’s a moment where Linhardt freezes, processing the sentence in silence. And then… And then, he can’t help but laugh. 

Of course. Of course the book cast him as someone heartbroken over his lost friend. This is almost cruel. 

“And what would he have me do instead, hm?” Linhardt asks, turning to face Ferdinand. The expression twisting his mouth feels alien, plastered on like a mask. “Thoughtlessly stumble around until I run into him by chance?”

“No! Or, well…” Ferdinand frowns. “Knowing him... that is, perhaps, what he might suggest. But that isn’t what I meant.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know that you need not face this alone. Caspar is my friend too, and if I can lend my services in any way to help you find him, I will.” 

For the second time in as many minutes, Linhardt freezes. He feels like he’s been punched, breathless and stinging, light enough to soar across the room. He tries to push down the hope buoying his chest, to counter it with reasonable doubt, but it’s no use. The idea that Ferdinand could be talking about Caspar, the _ real _ Caspar… 

Please, please let the magic be such that it’s actually him, and not some facsimile. Linhardt’s heart couldn’t take it, otherwise.

But it has to be the real thing, doesn’t it? It _ has _ to be Caspar. The magic is such that it wouldn’t create some shadow, some doppelganger of someone who’s already present in the book. 

Linhardt has to believe that it’s safe for him to hope.

“You… You’re talking about Caspar,” he breathes. “Caspar’s here.” 

“Well, no,” Ferdinand says, brow furrowing. “I mean, I am speaking of him, yes, but…” He rests his hand on Linhardt’s shoulder. “His absence is, er, the problem, in fact.” He does a poor job of disguising the concerned glance he shoots the discarded tankard next to Linhardt’s hand. “Are you quite alright?” 

“More than you can imagine,” Linhardt says, clambering to his feet. “Better than I’ve been in a while, in fact.” 

“You would know better than I, I suppose, but—” Ferdinand stops short, making a sound of comprehension. “I see! I was unaware you found my presence so reassuring.” He straightens his lapels, smiling. “I cannot say I’m not flattered. Had I known the extent of my impact, I would have offered my reassurances much sooner.” 

“Indeed,” Linhardt agrees, not processing anything Ferdinand’s saying. It always works out better for the both of them if he allows Ferdinand to proceed under his own power, unhindered. 

Besides. Linhardt has much more important matters to consider.

“Hold one moment!” Linhardt’s halfway across the tavern before Ferdinand calls after him. “You did remember to pay for your drink, yes?”

“We’ll call it square if he gets you out of here,” the barkeep growls. “Come back when you’ve learned to lower your damn voice.”

“He says that every time we leave,” Ferdinand says, the second the door to the tavern closes behind them. “And yet he still allows us to spend as much time and coin as we like until the moment we depart.”

“Possibly because we’re the only ones willing to pay for that swill,” Linhardt answers automatically, then winces. If the character he’s displaced usually enjoys such drinks, he might make this fictitious Ferdinand suspicious. The characters he’d encountered thus far were reactive beyond expectation, and Ferdinand should be no exception. 

“So you always say,” Ferdinand says, shaking his head. “And yet you order it anyway. Not that you ever drink it.”

The relief Linhardt expects to hit doesn’t come. In a way, it would have been comforting to be contradicted, to have slotted into the place of a character different from himself in at least some small way. Part of it is that it’s unnerving to imagine some illusory version of himself walking around within the tale. The rest, however, is simply a mess of confusion.

Each new character he encounters is so reactive, so alive, that it seems… it seems wasteful, almost, to act as if they don’t truly exist. Yes, the Ferdinand at his side is not truly Ferdinand. He’s a character taking on a familiar shape, powered by magic. And yet he moves and acts and responds as if he has his own will. 

Could all of that truly be a farce? Just a shadow-play, with silhouettes of old friends casting figures against the wall? And when the magic ends, will the characters within the book cease to be? Or will they continue on with their original faces and personalities, uninhibited by the boundaries of Linhardt and Caspar’s perceptions? 

“—nd you have long since stopped listening to me. Remarkable.” Ferdinand— or the character wearing his face— shakes his head. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that you haven’t fallen asleep.”

“I wouldn’t do that while we’re searching for Caspar,” Linhardt counters, ripped from his thoughts. 

“But you would otherwise.” Ferdinand brings his hand to his forehead, a familiar gesture that prompts a ripple of discomfort. “Why should I expect anything else?”

“You should know better than to expect anything from me,” Linhardt says. “I only pursue that which makes me happy.”

“Hence our search.” Ferdinand sighs. “Alright. Well, it’s best to gather information while the iron is hot, or some such metaphor.” He looks around, then brightens. “At least we’ve almost arrived at the town square.” 

“At the very least,” Linhardt echoes, as if he has any knowledge of the town’s geography. 

“You there!” Ferdinand calls out, flagging down a passing stranger. “Have you seen a man, much shorter and louder than I?”

Linhardt sighs. If that’s how Ferdinand intends to describe Caspar, he might be better served asking if anyone has seen a man who’s been helping anyone he can find, yelling about justice all the while.

Linhardt’s eyes slide away from the conversation, but it isn’t as if he’ll achieve a better result by looking around. It would be foolish to expect to find Caspar lounging around in the town square, waiting for them to— 

Oh. 

Oh, Linhardt is a fool. 

The world stops, narrowing until the only point in focus is the wolf across the square. It’s playing with a group of children next to a cart, more careful in its control and strength than any animal has the right to be. More striking, however, is the vibrant color of its fur: a rich, familiar turquoise. 

There isn’t a wolf in the world that comes by that color naturally, fable or no.

“Caspar!”

If there had been any doubt, it’s thrown aside the moment the wolf whirls around, tail already waving back and forth, and launches himself towards Linhardt.

However, a single joyful bark is all that makes its way out of the wolf’s mouth before he freezes mid-stride, his eyes growing wide. From so close, it’s easy to see the way his ears flick back and his tail tucks between his legs, a whimper stretching his mouth. 

“Caspar?” Linhardt asks, stretching out a hand as he moves forward. “What’s wrong?”

The wolf looks torn for a moment.

“Linhardt?” Ferdinand looks scared, too, but in a different way. He clasps Linhardt’s shoulder. “My friend, are you… quite alright?” 

The wolf makes a mournful sound and edges backwards, eyes wide and sad, and Linhardt knows, is absolutely certain this is Caspar. Even hidden beneath fur and an elongated snout, Linhardt would recognize that expression anywhere. Yes, it’s a rare sight— Caspar only ever wears it when desperately afraid of losing something, someone, but… it is unforgettable, nonetheless.

“Oh, please don’t look at me like that, Caspar,” Linhardt says. “I couldn’t handle it when we were children, much less as students. What makes you think it’s any better now that you have actual puppy eyes?”

“And you.” He turns to Ferdinand, tapping the hand on his shoulder. “As much as I appreciate your help, and as much as you will not understand this, please accept that I am much too familiar with children’s stories to believe that turning into a wolf is outside the realm of possibility. Especially for Caspar.”

Linhardt sighs, even as he turns to see the way Caspar’s ears are perking up, his eyes widening comically. 

“How do you get into these situations, anyway?” He asks, placing his hands on his hips. “You can’t let Lysithea talk you into these things, especially when you’re so stubborn about my—”

Linhardt would have finished his lecture if he were not falling under the sudden weight of a humongous canine. 

“Argh! _ Caspar!” _ Oh Goddess. His hair is going to be soaked in spit. “Yes, I am glad to see you as— Oh, I swear!” In Caspar’s eagerness, he hasn’t been as careful with his paws as he should be. Linhardt pushes at one that’s digging into his stomach, even as a grin stretches his face. “Reunions with you are always such an ordeal.” 

“I see!” Ferdinand exclaims from his unjustly vertical position, eyes gleaming as he looks down at the two of them. “So Caspar has been cursed! No wonder we were unable to locate him.”

“Was the unusual appearance of a_ wolf _in the middle of town not enough?” Linhardt complains, shoving at Caspar’s massive frame. It doesn’t help. If anything, Caspar applies even more pressure, relaxing his muscles to make himself heavier. 

“You are entirely unhelpful,” Linhardt says, giving up on pushing him off. He closes his eyes. “I cannot believe I’ve missed you.” Unfortunately, his inability to frown makes him unconvincing at best.

Caspar makes a sound that might be a direct argument, but is mostly just loud. 

“Yes, well, fine. I am delighted beyond words to see you.” He clears his throat. “However, I would very much like some reassurance that this isn’t a story where you have to eat anyone. I don’t know about you, but I would prefer not to be trapped here forever.” He sighs, smile finally dimming. “Even putting that aside, I like you better when you have two legs.” 

Thankfully, that succeeds in rousing Caspar from his place than Linhardt’s ineffectual shoving did. He sprints over to a well-gnawed stick, lying next to the cart, then rushes back to Linhardt and Ferdinand. 

Caspar carefully draws in the dust with the stick, moving with hard-won control and stepping over the marks he makes as he goes. 

“Hey, he’s makin’ the shapes again!” One of the children calls, clapping her hands together. “Smart boy!”

“Ain’t smart if it don’t mean shit,” another snorts. “Never makes any sense.”

“Could say the same about you,” the first child counters, sticking her tongue out at him. 

“Did the curse take away his ability to communicate as well?” Ferdinand mutters to Linhardt, concern furrowing his brow as he surveys Caspar’s work. “Perhaps as an animal, he cannot properly make the shapes of the words, nor comprehend them.” Which would be a fair concern, except, well...

To Linhardt’s chagrin, the writing is completely intelligible. The issue is not with the content, nor Caspar’s comprehension, but rather with Caspar’s handwriting. A calligrapher, he is not. The writing on the ground is messier, yes, as a result of using a large stick and having lost access to fine motor control, but close enough to his usual scrawl that Linhardt hardly has to strain to read it.

_ “Someone stole my clothes so I’m a wolf now,” _ Caspar writes. _ “I think if I get them back I’ll be all good.” _He sits back on his haunches, tail thumping against the ground as he looks up at Linhardt.

“Hm.” Linhardt crosses his arms. “You are aware, of course, that this is absurd.” 

Caspar shrugs, but the motion is strange in his current form, looking more like a shuddering twitch of the shoulders. He then proceeds to roll in the dirt, erasing what he wrote before picking the stick back up. 

_ “Duh.” _ Caspar shoots him a baleful look, then elaborates. _ “This is a storybook Lin they never make sense.” _

“Fair point,” Lin admits.

“You can understand what he’s writing?” Ferdinand asks, crouching down for a better look. 

“It helps if you tilt your head,” Linhardt says. Fifteen years of practice is a better advantage, of course, but there’s little chance of Ferdinand obtaining that any time soon. 

Now that advantages come to mind, however… Linhardt had better utilize the ones he has at his disposal. 

Linhardt begins sorting through his bag, looking for the notes relevant to this tale. He’s barely caught the shape of a wolf illustration before Caspar starts to paw at his arm. 

“Hm? Oh, there’s more.”

_ “What did you mean by getting trapped here if I had to eat someone,” _ Caspar has written. Below it, he has drawn a long sequence of what might be loosely understood to resemble question marks.

“Ah, well…” Linhardt glances at Ferdinand, gathering his thoughts, then shoves the notes back into his bag. How to phrase this without alarming their storybook companion? “It turns out that in order for us to get out of this, er, situation, we will need to bring things to a close.”

Caspar stares at him blankly, head cocked. 

“We’ll need to _ finish _ strong,” Linhardt says.

Caspar squints. 

“The fable, Caspar.” Linhardt gives up. “I’m talking about finishing the fable.” 

“Fable…” Ferdinand sounds out the word, brow furrowed, and Linhardt hopes beyond hope that the original Ferdinand’s tendency to draw his own, bizarre conclusions works in their favor. “Do you mean to say this is a sort of narrative based ritual?” Ah, success. 

“No wonder you were mentioning children’s stories,” he continues. “Or, rather than a ritual, perhaps it has simply happened often enough that stories have been— Wait a moment!” Ferdinand shakes his head, bringing his hand to his forehead. “How is it that you discovered all this? A moment ago, we didn’t even know where Caspar was! And now, out of nowhere, you know how to cure him?”

“He explained,” Linhardt lies, gesturing to where Caspar is scrawling out a new response. “It would be strange if he had no idea what had happened to him, wouldn’t it?” 

“I… Well, I suppose so,” Ferdinand says, but he doesn’t look pleased about it.

Caspar taps his snout against Linhardt’s arm to signal he’s done writing his response.

_ “I’ve finished these stories loads of times though why didn’t it work before now?” _ The ground reads.

“It needs both of us to work,” Linhardt says, simplifying a long and complex explanation that would be far too tiresome to fully convey. 

Caspar nods, but before he can start a new response, Ferdinand interjects.

“Supposing I accept all of that,” he says, crossing his arms, “and chalk the rest up to your usual strategizing and sneaking around and what have you.”

Linhardt shrugs. He cannot refute that. 

“I am capable of putting all of that aside,” Ferdinand says. He really can’t, considering he’s Ferdinand— or at least some version of him— but he’s going to have to, anyway. Lindhart attempts not to feel too guilty about that. “It isn’t as if you’ll tell me, anyway. Both of you seem to delight in keeping me in the dark.” Ferdinand sighs. “However, there is one aspect of this that continues to vex me.” 

“What I cannot understand,” he continues, frowning down at Caspar, “is why Caspar reacted the way he did upon first seeing us.”

Caspar’s ears immediately flick back, eyes darting anywhere but at Linhardt, and Ferdinand’s question only garners further validation with the moment. 

“Caspar?” Linhardt prompts. 

Caspar winces, then moves to respond with agonizing slowness. It seems that he glances at Linhardt, eyes large and pleading, every third letter. It’s enough time for a thousand possibilities to cross Linhardt’s mind. None of them good. 

Finally, Caspar drops the stick. He looks away as Linhardt reads.

_ “Didn’t think you were really you. I already had to _

_ It was hard. The first time was hard. Didn’t want to go through a second.” _

Oh. Caspar had seen… So there _ had _ been a facsimile of Linhardt in the storybook after all. 

It only made sense, really. Caspar had been in the book longer than Linhardt had. Of course the magic would have provided a copy of him, if he wasn’t there. 

Of course it would. Of course.

It takes two strides for Linhardt to reach Caspar’s side, and only a moment to kneel next to him. Barely a breath escapes before Linhardt wraps his arms around him, holding him close.

Nothing about it is hard. 

It has always been the easiest thing in the world to rest against Caspar. Even when it is made difficult through circumstance, or arguments, or either of them being ridiculous, nothing else comes as naturally as leaning on his best friend. 

“I’m here, Caspar,” Linhardt says, his eyes warm and throat strained. 

What was it like, for Caspar to see a Linhardt who wasn’t his best friend? Did he laugh the same way? What did it take to realize that he was a caricature? Or, at the very least, a different person? How long did it take?

“I’m here,” Linhardt repeats. “It’s really me.”

Caspar turns and huffs directly in his ear. Which is disgusting. But Linhardt will put up with it for now. 

“You should know better,” Linhardt continues, clearing his throat. “In fact, according to Mercedes, you _ do _ know better. Of course I’d find you.” His laugh is gross and wet-sounding. “I worked too hard looking for you not to find you.” 

Caspar tucks his head over Linhardt’s shoulder and makes a small sound, punctuated by the slow swing of his tail behind him. 

“Ah, well.” Ferdinand clears his throat, and right, Linhardt had forgotten that he was also here. “This, um… I cannot say I quite understand what’s going on, but… it seems as if you know what you need to do from here?” Saints bless the man for being awkward enough to drop a subject the second he sees a near-tearful embrace. 

Awkward is an easier word for it than compassionate. It’s easier to wave away.

Easier to say Ferdinand is being awkward in sacrificing the answer to the one question he allowed himself to ask, even if he’s doing it solely out of his own stringent sense of propriety, rather than kind. 

Linhardt sighs. He almost feels bad for being unable to volunteer the information. Perhaps if the nascent feeling were even a fraction as powerful as Linhardt’s distaste for inconvenience, he might attempt explaining the whole mess.

He won’t, but, maybe in another world. In this one, where he’s tired and his eyes sting, simply imagining the energy and time such a thing would entail is exhausting. 

So Linhardt shrugs instead, taking the out he has been offered.

“We have a much clearer idea of what the process will require, at least,” Linhardt answers, and Caspark barks in affirmative… directly in Linhardt’s ear. It seems that Caspar is just as troublesome in whatever shape he takes.

“Yes,” Linhardt says, pushing at his face. “Thank you for that. You do know you’re horrible, yes?” 

Caspar answers by relaxing his muscles once again: the only warning Linhardt gets before the full weight of an eighty-tonne wolf has toppled him onto his side. So, not only is he well aware, but dead set on proving it. Fantastic. 

“You cannot do this every time I complain, Caspar,” Linhardt says, shoving at the massive pile of fur who’s apparently found his new calling as a blanket. “We’ll never get anything done.”

“And what exactly are you intending to get done?” Ferdinand says, frowning. “You haven’t exactly made any plans clear thus far.”

“Well, if Caspar would get off me—”

Before Linhardt can finish his sentence, Caspar removes himself with all of the grace and docility he has never once displayed in his life. Linhardt rolls his eyes. Of course he would choose now, of all times, to feign compliance. 

“Allow me one moment to review my—” Linhardt catches himself. He had only just re-established that it was best to avoid sharing the particulars of their circumstances, and here he is, about to expose himself. He has to remember: as familiar as Ferdinand may appear, he is not their friend. As a character, he only knows as much about the situation as they are willing to tell him. 

“Remember what I said about a fable? I had been picking up…” Linhardt lifts his fist to his mouth, thinking. “Let us say that I found several clues before encountering Caspar. His explanation led me to the right conclusions, but my notes and observations have proven to be an, erm, invaluable foundation, and I wish to review the facts at my disposal.”

“I suppose?” Ferdinand cocks his head for a long moment, then... chuckles?

Linhardt blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“I know it will shock you to hear this, Linhardt,” Ferdinand starts, his laughter receding, leaving a small smile in its wake. “But there really is no need to explain all of your actions to me. You are my friend, after all. Some things can, in fact, be left to prior understanding and vague platitudes.” He crouches to clasp Linhardt on the shoulder. “I know that I often give you a hard time, and I cannot say it does not sting to be excluded from time to time, but I understand.” A laugh leaves him in a short exhale. “I know how you are, and I can trust your methods. I trust you.” 

Ah. Linhardt really wishes he hadn’t said that. 

His stomach roils at the warmth, and he fights to compartmentalize, pushing the complicated mix of obligation and guilt and gratitude and who-knows-what-else into the ever-growing catalogue of things better left unexamined, tucked alongside his relationship with his father and every moment ever spent on the battlefield. 

It would be silly to feel as if he’s betraying a magical construct’s trust. Ridiculous. Laughable, even. 

Linhardt does not feel like laughing. 

He swallows down his emotions and the bile that’s risen in his mouth, and tries to direct his attention somewhere, anywhere that isn’t in the direct fire of Ferdinand’s trusting expression and the reassuring grip on his shoulder.

Caspar nudges at him, appearing concerned and right, yes. Still a wolf. Fixing that takes precedent. 

Linhardt retrieves the notes from where he’d stashed them and focuses on a problem he can actually solve. 

According to a brief skim, the clothes should be under lock and key somewhere in the nearby baron’s grounds. Easy enough to retrieve. Or it would be, if they weren’t toting along a giant wolf on a stealth mission. 

“Remind me, once more, of where we might find the baron’s residence?” 

“Baron Raugraf?” Ferdinand asks, startled, and the name rings a bell about as faint as a small chime on the other side of a battlefield. From the way Caspar bares his teeth, it’s more like a cacophonous toll for him. 

“That would be the one.”

“The estate is only a short way up the river, same as it’s ever been,” Ferdinand says, and that is all it takes for Caspar to immediately race off towards the bank. The children nearby shriek with delight at his sudden speed, pointing at the teal blur with enthusiasm. 

“Casp— oh, forget it,” Linhardt says, cutting himself off. “There’s never been any use in trying to slow him down before. Why would that change now that he has double the legs with which to charge forward?” He shakes his head. In some ways, it’s almost impossible to believe Caspar’s real. 

After a moment, Caspar skids to a stop. He stares at them, waiting with all the patience he doesn’t have, and lets a single, thunderous vocalization loose. 

For a moment, all the lingering sentimentality and regret fades, untwisting. Everything complex and frustrating melts away when confronted with someone as simple and good and straightforward and loud as Caspar.

Linhardt can’t help himself from smiling at him, the expression held fast by the simple joy of Caspar being near and whole, and everything almost, almost clicking into place at last. 

Soon. Soon, Linhardt will be able to hear his best friend’s voice again.

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, and the sound of comprehension he makes causes Linhardt’s shoulders to rise above his collar in stiff discomfort. 

“What?” He asks, on-guard. 

“It’s nothing, truly,” Ferdinand lies, though it takes only a moment for him to contradict himself. “It’s just, well…” He smiles, then inclines his head towards Caspar. “He truly makes you happy, doesn’t he?” 

Incredible. Of all the times for Ferdinand to disregard his good manners in order to openly scrutinize someone, it has to be now. Why wouldn’t it be? 

“Of course,” Linhardt says, eventually, with a shrug and a sigh. It’s not worth contesting. Not anymore. He has long-since lost that battle.

Years ago, when Linhardt had decided that being in love took quite a lot of energy that he didn’t have, he had entertained the idea of falling out of it. He almost thought he succeeded, from time to time. This is it, he’d think: I am no longer in love with Caspar. He is a dear friend, and I enjoy his presence, but that’s the extent of it.

Of course, then Caspar would walk through the door and ruin everything by virtue of being himself, bright and warm as sunshine. And Linhardt… well, Linhardt could never quite resist luxuriating in whatever warmth he managed to steal.

It was rather inconvenient how happy Caspar made him, really. Any less, and perhaps Linhardt would stand a chance in falling out of love. Trust Caspar to refuse to give any less than his best effort, even in this. 

In any case, the longer Linhardt went about pretending that wasn’t true, the more exhausted and unhappy it became. Pretending he didn’t love Caspar was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he doesn’t bother. Not anymore. 

“I can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t make me happy,” Linhardt says, matter-of-fact. “Not one in which he is him, and I am myself, anyway,” he continues, bringing his fist to his mouth in thought. “Although, if you wished to argue the particulars, there are quite a few variables to take into consideration. For instance, if—”

He’s cut off by Caspar rushing back to tug at his sleeve, having reached the very edge of his nonexistent restraint. 

“Yes, yes, _ alright, _ Caspar,” Linhardt says, torn between fondness and exasperation. “We’ll set out immediately.”

“I do apologize,” Ferdinand says, sounding completely unapologetic, “but I cannot help but comment on the fact that— judging from the scraps and fragments of conversation I have been party to— it very much appears as if you are about to go confront a noble, which cannot possibly be—”

“Correct.”

“Why.” Ferdinand pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“No,” he says, taking a deep breath. “No, I said that I would trust you, and that I would stand by— No, no, again I must apologize and ask if you are really, just _ absolutely _ determined to throw yourself on a sword, as that appears to be the only possible conclusion to this inanity!”

“Settle yourself, Ferdinand,” Lindhart soothes. “Have you ever known myself to put myself at unnecessary risk?”

There is a long pause.

“That _ is _ true,” Ferdinand allows, arms crossed. “However, I would feel much more secure if I had any sense— any at all— of what it is you actually intend to do.”

“Caspar’s curse is tied to the theft of his clothes, so we need to retrieve them from the baron’s manse,” Linhardt replies. That much, in any case, is easy to divulge. “We simply need to sneak in, retrieve his clothing, and all will be well. No confrontation necessary.” 

Ferdinand opens his mouth again, and for a moment, Linhardt is fully convinced that he will actually have to warp the man away to bring an end to this conversation. Fortunately, the mouth closes, and Ferdinand seems to deflate. 

“Do not take this as approval for your plan,” Ferdinand says, sighing. “It’s foolhardy at best, and impulsive chaos at worst. However…” He shakes his head. “When have I ever succeeded in discouraging the both of you?

“You haven’t,” Linhardt says. At his side, Caspar barks in affirmative. 

“You could have at least indulged me,” Ferdinand says, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they shine with determination. “If you haven’t emerged from that manse in half an hour, I will gather the city watch.”

“Alright,” Linhardt agrees. He’d argue for longer, but that would use up even more time and energy, and it isn’t as if Ferdinand would be able to convince the men either way. No guard would rally against the noble that employs them, even if this is a storybook. 

“Good.” Ferdinand crouches down to look Caspar in the eye. “Look out for each other, alright?”

Caspar gently whuffs, lunging forwards so that his weight is pressed against Ferdinand. Unbalanced, the both of them topple backwards, with Caspar looking far too pleased with himself. 

“He says there was never any doubt,” Linhardt translates, and Caspar vocalizes in affirmation. 

They’ve been looking after each other for fifteen years, after all. It would take much more than this to put an end to that. 

* * *

Once they’ve left Ferdinand behind for the quiet solitude of the riverside path, Linhardt doesn’t waste any time in securing their escape route. 

it doesn’t take much to establish the needed magical boundaries for Lysithea’s spell. As much trouble as finding Caspar was, it only takes a few minutes of quiet concentration to make the needed calculations and impress the magical intent upon the fable. Once they bring this tale to its close, the spell will release, and… dissipate. 

Linhardt looks down at his hands, brow furrowed, and then rises. He and Caspar have a lot of ground to cover.

He doesn’t know how long they walk in silence before he feels a claw catch on his sleeve. When he looks down, Caspar is batting at Linhardt’s arm with a massive front paw. 

“What is it?” Linhardt asks, immediately at attention. 

Caspar arrests Linhardt’s momentum by stepping directly in front of him, making a barrier of himself, then rushes forth. For a second, Linhardt is afraid they’ve been ambushed.

And then Caspar returns with a stick.

_ “Whatcha thinking about?” _ He writes, the words clearer in the wet, clay-rich soil than they were in the dusty streets. After a moment, he adds, _ “You’re being all frowny”. _

“That’s just my face,” Linhardt says, though it’s half-hearted. Caspar knows him better than that. “Although… you may have a point.”

Caspar’s baleful look speaks volumes, as does his weary huff.

“You do _ not _ always have a point, Caspar, and don’t pretend otherwise.” Linhardt shakes his head. “A thousand misadventures speak to an opposing argument.”

“In any case,” he continues, “I simply cannot help feeling… unnerved, when I consider how each of the characters we’ve encountered are so reactive. I ran into Mercedes, a few stories ago, you know, and she still remembered you.”

Caspar brightens for a moment, then looks a bit sheepish. 

“Don’t worry yourself,” Linhardt says, waving a hand. “She didn’t say anything you need be embarrassed about. It’s just… With the way they all act, I have to wonder if they have their own sentience, or if they’re simply acting out roles by rote.” 

Lysithea had said there was nothing beyond the text and the spell. However, if that were the case, the characters shouldn’t have even been able to process information or interactions that exist beyond those limitations.

“None of this makes sense,” Linhardt mutters. 

Caspar cocks his head, and the light, reflecting off the water, seems to make his eyes shine for a moment. The image is not unlike a guardian statue, standing watch with eyes of crystal, ready to pass judgement in one devastating swipe. Even the overlarge stick that’s gently clasped in his jaws takes on a majestic air, as if to make a point of the delicacy and control that such care demands.

Then Caspar starts dragging the stick in the dirt. 

_ “Does it matter?” _

The words stare up at Linhardt with the same unhesitating simplicity that’s shone in Caspar’s eyes since the day they met. Linhardt can practically hear it in his voice as he looks up at him.

Whenever Linhardt would throw his head against a book again and again, drilling into the theory behind a problem without success, Caspar would be there, screwing up his face. “Well, what’s it used for?” he’d ask, first and foremost. “Why d’you wanna do that?” would follow. Always the practical questions. Always pointing at the heart of theory and plans and blueprints and asking: “Why?”

Strangely enough, the ‘how’ would follow easily, after that. And, if it didn’t, it was because the ‘why’ proved it wasn’t worth further effort. 

And here it was again. Caspar’s question. The first step to a solution:

Does it matter?

“What do you mean?” Linhardt asks. “Does it matter if… the characters are sentient?”

Caspar nods, then winces as the stick strikes the ground, jarring his teeth. He goes back to writing. 

_ “They need help anyway,” _he writes. 

The image of Hilda, shrugging in resigned exhaustion, flashes through his mind. Linhardt hadn’t thought twice before giving her the information she needed, before lending his aid. 

But, why would he? It was a simple enough fix. He may not be a good person, but he’s not terrible enough to withhold a name: something earned and given without effort on his part. Besides, even if he wasn’t thinking about Caspar at the time, his overall goal was the same. In the end, his only aim was to find his best friend. To bring him home.

In comparison… Caspar’s compassion, his _ sincerity, _his kindness is far greater and more powerful than anything Linhardt could dream of possessing. Even before Caspar knew the constraints of the magic, or even the particulars of the tales he was travelling through, he was helping people. 

“I truly cannot win against you, can I?” Linhardt asks, a smile curving around the helpless words. “I must confess,” he says, “I feel a bit inadequate, sometimes. You always want to save everyone, but…” He shrugs, letting a mirthless laugh fall with his shoulders. “Here I am, only thinking of you.” 

There’s a moment where Caspar is staring at him in quiet consideration. Even in a different form, it’s not a disposition that fits well on him, and Linhardt’s heart stumbles off tempo at the sight. 

This might well be the time Caspar takes him seriously. The time he realizes Linhardt is being sincere. The time he realizes the gap in their inherent moral qualities, their dedication, their ability to care. The time that Caspar realizes he is good, truly good, and Linhardt is—

Being tackled to the ground. 

Linhardt’s world is blue and smelly and humid with dog breath as Caspar makes a point of ruining his hair and blowing rancid air in his face, and he only obtains a reprieve when Caspar backs off to retrieve his stick. 

Linhardt blinks up from where he lies on the ground, trying to process whatever just happened. He thinks that was an argument, perhaps. Or, something close to it. But whatever Caspar meant to say by it… is, well, probably being transcribed at this very moment. 

Linhardt closes his eyes. He could go to sleep here, on the ground, if he wanted to. He doesn’t have to look over at Caspar’s response if he doesn’t want to. Caspar can’t make him. He wouldn’t. If Linhardt chooses to do so, he can ignore any possible argument or confirmation that Caspar has finally recognized the truth about what kind of person he’s chosen for a best friend. 

Caspar nudges Linhardt’s side. 

He looks. 

_ “Does it matter?” _ has been underlined with three firm strokes. Next to it, in even more rushed, sloppy scrawl than usual, Caspar has added, _ “You still helped. Doesn’t matter if people are real or if you had other reasons. You helped.” _

“But I didn’t mean to,” Linhardt says, and the way it sounds like a whine is embarrassing enough that he has to cross his arms to hide himself. 

Caspar rolls his eyes, then taps his writing with the stick._ “You still helped.” _

“I—” Linhardt fumbles for a response for a second, then shakes his head. “How about this, then, Caspar? Whether or not I helped those people, I’m going to be responsible for ending them.” He can taste bile. “So yes, it does matter if they’re real or not, because the second I end this spell, I’ll be choosing you over them.” 

Caspar cocks his head for a moment, then shakes it, slowly. 

“What do you mean, _ no?” _ Linhardt asks, voice pitching. “I already— Caspar, you saw a character based on me. The second I replaced him in this book— if he was a person, then—”

Caspar barks, shaking his head again, and picks up the stick. 

_ “Calm down Lin. Mercedes remembered me, _” he writes. 

Linhardt blinks, and he feels his grip loosen. Has he been pulling at his hair? When did he start doing that? 

“Yes?” He replies.

_ “Weird cause that story definitely ended.” _

“But—” Linhardt’s mouth snaps closed, just as he begins to protest. That is… strange. “I had assumed that was because you were still within the confines of the book, even if you weren’t in the story itself.”

Caspar walks further along the river, gathering more space for his response. 

_ “I mean if that were right we’d have to finish the whole book right? But we just have to finish one story,” _he writes. 

Linhardt freezes, then feels the tension leak from him, his shoulders sinking back into place. Caspar’s right. Caspar is right. 

If each story was self contained within the bounds of the spell, the second caspar left, it should have reset. Mercedes shouldn’t have remembered him. The fact that she did meant— 

_ “Stories always keep going,” _ Caspar writes. _ “That’s how they work.” _ He nudges against Linhardt’s hand before rushing back to add, _ “Besides what’s our other option? Leave em in the lurch and let em suffer bc we’re too afraid to help?” _

Linhardt remembers an evening where Caspar had looked at him, eyes bright after talking to the Professor. “Sometimes,” he’d said, “you have to do what’s right. If you only ever think about the consequences, or how doing something good now might hurt someone later… you might never help anyone ever again. And I’d regret that more than anything else.”

“I can believe that,” Linhardt had said in the past, fond smile on his face. 

“Oh,” he says in the present, and he’s on his knees, tension spent. “Oh, thank Cethleann.” 

Caspar tucks his head over Linhardt’s shoulder, and they stay like that for a while. There’s only so long Caspar can go without sharing his opinions, however, so it isn’t long before he picks the stick back up.

_ “You try too hard to pretend you don’t care Lin,” _ Caspar writes. Linhardt laughs.

“I should know better,” Linhardt says, sighing. “That’s always been more effort than it’s worth.”

_ “It’s because you think too much, _ ” Caspar writes, then gently bats at him with the stick. _ “Leave some stuff to me.” _

“Ah, Caspar,” Linhardt says, shaking his head. “Don’t you know? I’m quite lazy. If you offer to take care of some things, I’ll have you take care of them all.” 

Caspar snorts, shaking his head, but doesn’t write out a reply. Instead, he rises, looking at Linhardt expectantly. 

“I suppose I won’t be getting out of helping you with this, at the very least,” Linhardt says, inclining his head. Later, he can ask Lysithea about the particulars of the magic involved. For now, he has to set aside his moral crisis about the relative autonomy of fictional characters and help his best friend. He brushes the dirt off his trousers and clambers to his feet. 

“Off we go, then. To steal and defraud the nobility.” 

At least it won’t be the first time.

  
  


Tricks and expertise won from years of war make sneaking into the baron’s manse simple, and the task is only made easier still through memories of misspent youth: sneaking out to visit Caspar; escaping parties upon unspeakably boring parties; disguising Caspar’s presence in their home long after he was meant to return to the Bergliez residence; receiving Ashe’s tutelage in how to noiselessly pry open a window— “Only in emergencies, Linhardt. I mean it.” And, of course, immediately using that tutelage to break into forbidden areas around the monastery. In the end, all of it could be considered training for this moment. 

Eavesdropping on a group of servants. 

“Can’t stand the waste of it all,” one of the maids huffs. From Caspar and Linhardt’s position, crouched in a dirty, little annex that may have once stored firewood, they can’t see much of anything; however, they can hear more than enough. If only any of it were useful. “If the meat’s just gonna spoil on a hook, what’s the use in wastin’ the butcher’s time?”

“But it was ordered for the house’s honored guests,” a mild voice interjects. “It makes sense that if the guests can’t attend, there’s no more use for the meat.” 

“Silly me, thinkin’ there’s a use for food.” There’s a pause. “Oh, wait, people generally need it to live, don’t they?”

“Watch your tongue,” a new voice responds. “No one present is charged with the management of the household, nor the menu, and thus no authority to speak on such matters.”

The unspoken meaning echoes. Any more criticism than this will be taken as a direct attack on both the estate’s steward and the baron himself. There’s a beat of silence.

“Sorry,” the maid bites out. “I just… don’t like waste.” 

“So that’s it,” the mild voice from earlier says, full of false cheer. “I’d bet you’re still sore over that armor from the other day, right?” 

Linhardt and Caspar perk up. Finally, something that might be relevant.

“Mn, a bit,” the maid agrees. The sound of dishes clatter for a moment. “It’s good armor, and good cloth to boot. Seems a shame to shove it away in some corner and let the mice have at it.” 

Caspar lets out a quiet, involuntary whine, and Linhardt reaches down to shush him, smoothing down his fur in reassurance. They have to listen. 

Linhardt tries to transmit his desperation for the crucial information directly into the maid’s brain. _ Which _corner is it? 

“The right honorable baron Raugraf can do as he pleases,” the same stick in the mud from earlier counters. “You should be pleased with the trust he has shown in allowing you to take care of this matter in the first place.” 

“My lungs won’t thank ‘im when I’m coughing up all the dust in the fuckin’ building,” the maid grumbles, but her voice is so soft that Linhardt barely catches it. Louder, she says, “Of course. I’m honored to be so trusted.” There’s another loud sound from the dishes crashing together. 

“You should be,” the cheerful voice agrees, seeming to miss the sarcasm. They sound earnest. Almost envious. “I’m not even allowed in the South Wing.” 

“We’ve talked about this, Sonia,” the maid says, voice flat. “It’s near condemned. You already have enough trouble breathin’ right.”

Caspar and Linhardt look at one another, and Linhardt has to move quickly to grab Caspar’s tail so that the thud of its wagging won’t alert the servants. He raises his free hand to his lips, and Caspar nods aggressively. 

Extricating themselves doesn’t take long— though it does take some maneuvering— and they’re soon on their way to the decrepit South Wing. 

Linhardt scowls at the various tapestries they pass in the process. Something about this all feels vaguely familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. It’s not the structure of the manse, to be sure. Nor the disparity between the opulence of some wings and the relative ruin of the other. However, the more glimpses he catches of the baron’s profile, rendered in embroidery, the more he hears mention of his name— the more it all seems to jar against him. Impulsively, he sends a gust of wind towards one of the wall hangings, watching it ripple and twist.

The movement causes light to fall upon the house’s crest, and in the moment Linhardt sees it, everything falls into place. 

Linhardt almost groans aloud. Then, realizing that he’s in an abandoned wing with no one but Caspar around, does. 

Caspar whirls around, concerned. 

“Caspar,” Linhardt sighs. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this the barony your father was in… _ talks _ with?” 

Caspar’s ears flick irritably, and he nods. Linhardt responds in kind, grimacing.

Unfortunate. Linhardt had half-hoped he’d misremembered. He’d never much enjoyed hearing his parents talk about arranging his future, but hearing about Caspar’s was even worse. At least anyone who attempted to court Linhardt would back out of it quickly enough. Caspar, unfortunately, was likeable enough that the few offers he received were likely to actually come to fruition. 

The only reason the proposed engagement between him and Raugraf’s daughter hadn’t reached final negotiations was due to a taxation scandal Bergliez refused to tie the family to. 

Linhardt grimaces. He can still recall the stress dreams he used to have about the whole affair.

It probably ranked as one of the worst possible ways to realize he held romantic interest in Caspar. If not, then… Well, Linhardt would hate to see what did. 

At this point, it seems safe to assume that Lysithea’s spell is both sentient and loves nothing more than to fuck with Linhardt, personally. 

Although, considering Caspar was the one who was almost engaged, and he _ did _ get turned into a wolf, it was just as likely targeting him. Perhaps they should call it a draw.

“Can you smell your clothing anywhere around here?” Linhardt asks. 

Caspar hesitates for a moment, squinting as he sniffs. Then, eyes bright, he barely takes the time to nod before shooting forwards. 

Linhardt doesn’t have it in him to groan, even if he does have to run after him. Not when he almost has Caspar back. Not when they’re this close. 

Closer than Linhardt realized, even, considering how much faster Caspar is when he has four legs.

There’s a large crashing sound, which can only bode well. By the time Linhardt catches up to his best friend, finding him in a room tucked away on the right side of the hall, Caspar has shattered an armoire into splinters and is shifting through the wreckage. 

When Caspar extricates himself from the destruction, he has vibrant cloth clenched between his teeth. With an exasperated noise, he bats a pauldron across the floor. It makes a horrible grating sound as it slides towards Linhardt. 

“Shouldn’t you be taking better care of that?” Linhardt asks, alarmed. “Are you still able to change back if it’s damaged?”

Before today, Linhardt may have claimed that wolves are incapable of rolling their eyes. Ever since entering a storybook, however, he has had to reevaluate many things. He sighs.

“Alright. No need to be snippy.” Linhardt bends to collect the pauldron from the ground, as well as a pair of bracers that Caspar’s kicked over. “Must we dress you in full, or should your clothes suffice?” Hopefully it’s the latter. He is not looking forward to buckling armor onto a wolf. 

The strange shoulder-twitch of a shrug is Caspar’s only answer. Helpful. 

There is a moment of silence as the both of them sort through the garments, attempting to figure out the most logical sequence of dress. It’s all a bit stupid because it still boils down to trying to fit human clothes on a humongous canine, but it makes them both feel better, so it’s of vital importance. 

Besides, everyone knows that trousers have to go on first. It’s common sense. 

“Just so you’re aware,” Linhardt says, conversationally, “if I have to watch as your bones liquefy, or if transforming involves any kind of cracking, snapping, or flesh rending, I will pass out.” He squints down at the trousers in his hands, then at Caspar’s haunches. This is going to be a disaster. “Actually… Well, first, I will vomit, and perhaps scream. The fainting afterwards is non-negotiable, though, I’m afraid.”

Caspar nods, which is not nearly as reassuring as he might believe, then butts his head against Linhardt’s side, which is more so. Thus resolved, they get to work.

Fitting human clothing over a wolf’s frame is an arduous task that feels simultaneously like the most absurd and most important act in the world. 

Linhardt is as careful as he can possibly be, but quadripeds are not intended to wear pants, and attempting to fit them over Caspar without ripping is taking more effort and energy than Linhardt has ever once had at his disposal. 

Caspar rises onto his hindlegs in an effort to assist in the Great Trouser Conundrum, resting his front paws on Linhardt’s shoulders, and Linhardt cannot stop himself from laughing with everything he has.

This is so stressful. This is so stupid.

Linhardt’s stomach hurts from laughing. Even as he finally manages to get the trousers into place, he wheezes with near-hysterical laughter.

And then the distribution of weight changes, and Linhardt is falling, a wide-eyed Caspar falling with him, and they’re toppling to the ground in an instant, but the pain Linhardt braces for— the pain to which he has become accustomed, after falling so often— doesn’t come. Instead, it’s cushioned, braced so that the impact is instead taken by…

Taken by a hand. 

That is cradling the back of his head. 

Oh. Caspar is—

“Back. Oh, Saints, you’re finally back,” Linhardt breathes, laughter still catching in his chest. Before he’s even aware of it, he is reaching up to cup Caspar’s face. His thumb brushes across his cheek, feeling the warm, human shape of it. 

Caspar’s expression shifts, wide eyes turning to pleased crescents, a grin overtaking his face. The set of his jaw softens under Linhardt’s hand, tension leaking out as he relaxes into the touch. 

“‘Course,” he says, voice rough from disuse, and places his hand over Linhardt’s, holding it in place. He coughs, clearing his throat, but the smile doesn’t leave. “I’ll always come back, Lin.” He laughs. “Not sure what you’d do if I didn’t.” 

“Besides!” The gentle smack of Caspar’s forehead against Linhardt’s may be expected, but it still ruins the mood. Leave it to Caspar to immediately butt heads upon going back to normal. “I told you, didn’t I? You overthink_ way _ too much. If I just went and vanished on you, you’d probably combust.”

Linhardt scowls as Caspar beams at him, sunshine given human form. Warm, irritating, beloved, and capable of making Linhardt’s cheeks burn like nothing else. 

“You did vanish on me,” he grumbles, pushing at him. “And left me to go through all the trouble of dragging you back, besides.” 

“Aw, c’mon,” Caspar says. “I did the best I— Wait a minute.” He falters, his expression falling. The second the smile vanishes, it is missed. “I’m back to normal.”

“That _ would _ appear to be the case,” Linhardt says, eyebrows arching. He pulls at one of Caspar’s ears, amused at the face he makes in response. “Everything seems to be—” He cuts himself off, stung with the same realization that struck Caspar. “Wait, why are we still here?”

They should have finished the story. By all rights, they should be sheepishly explaining their current position to their friends, having found themselves in the middle of the library, not having a pleasant chat while resting in one another’s arms. Not that Linhardt would be opposed. 

However, there are certain things that take precedence. Such as not being trapped in a folktale for the rest of their lives. 

“Well,” Linhardt clears his throat, tapping at Caspar’s unoccupied arm. “If we want to solve this, we should probably get up.”

Caspar stares down at him for a moment, and then, all at once, he is springing backwards. Unfortunately, this includes the hand he was using to prop up Linhardt’s head. 

The smack of his head against the floor sounds worse than it is, but it still sours Linhardt’s expression. Mercedes was right. It’s a good thing he wears his hair in a bun.

“Shit! Are you alright, Lin?” Caspar asks, reaching to give him a hand up. 

“Despite attempts to ensure otherwise,” Linhardt sighs, accepting the hand. “Really, Caspar, was there any need to react that violently?” Even Linhardt can feel stung by that degree of rejection. It helps to know there is very little chance of it coming from a place of ill will, but, well..

“Sorry,” Caspar says, wincing. He squeezes Linhardt’s hand, then lets it fall.

“No, it’s…” Linhardt sighs. “It’s fine.” This is his own fault. He brushes himself off, dust falling with every shake of cloth. 

Caspar’s courageous, strong, and compassionate, so it’s easy to love him. It’s harder to love Linhardt, but Caspar’s always faced challenges head on, willing to take on the lion’s share. He is so willing to love others— to share as much of himself as he can spare, if not more.

Linhardt’s spoiled, in the end. He has always been the greedy, only child who cannot help the selfish desire to hoard as much as he can steal, never learning how to share. And that cannot stand. 

It would be too easy to give in, and far too difficult to give up. If he allowed himself to luxuriate in Caspar’s affections, to give priority to temporary happiness, it would be all the harder to let it go. They are in the midst of a war, and the battlefield is a jealous companion. If Linhardt dared to expend the effort of reaching for happiness, only to lose Caspar to its bloody embrace… it would break him. 

And yet.

Linhardt shakes his head, a humorless chuckle rising in his chest. Who is he attempting to fool? It’s already too late. Pretending as if he hasn’t been panicking over Caspar’s disappearance since this entire storybook disaster started, romantic entanglement or no, proves he has already reached the point of no return. 

To pretend anything else is just cowardice. The last remnant of self-defense. A barrier between him and the onslaught of potential hurt, thin as butcher paper. It would be so easy to tear through the last of it, to let the light in.

It would be so easy, if Linhardt were brave. 

Caspar chuckles, and every thought grinds to a stop, caught against the sound of it. The smile on his face is wistful enough to sting, just a little.

“I must be pretty lucky,” Caspar says, and the smile only gets bigger. “You had to have sacrificed, what, a solid five or six naps to find me?” 

“And how, exactly, did you expect me to sleep with you running off into the unknown?” Linhardt asks. 

“Well, according to you, it’s even harder to get some rest when I’m running around in your space.” Caspar shakes his head. “Guess it’s no good either way.”

“Of course one’s preferable to the other,” Linhardt says, frowning. “I’d much rather be awake and amused than awake and worried.” 

“Huh!” Caspar says, the sound catching on its way out, cracking against Linhardt’s ears. “Guess I shoulda— Well, I should’ve figured that much out before now, huh? Gotta be a reason you keep me around.”

“Only that you’re you,” Linhardt says, waving a hand. He’s only ever wished to indulge in whatever makes him happy. It would be sheer foolishness to reject such happiness, to push Caspar away and deny—

Oh. 

Linhardt’s hand stops midgesture, rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. Foolishness indeed. 

“In that case, right back at you,” Caspar replies, the last piece slotting into place. 

Happiness deserves fair exchange. Why is Linhardt denying them both the opportunity to make each other happy? So he can go on pretending that if he never takes that step, they’ll never risk anything? 

Caspar deserves bravery.

Linhardt takes a moment to breathe. He’s already had to do half a dozen uncomfortable, horrible things over the course of his stint in literary prison— all of which he will inventory and complain about for the next two or twenty years, preferably in Caspar’s arms— so what’s one more uncomfortable act of vulnerability?

“Caspar,” he starts. “I need—”

“Your notes, right?” Caspar asks, cutting him off. He grins, smacking them against an open palm. “You were blanking out for a bit, so I figured you were probably, like, mapping out the stuff we have to do.”

Over the years, Caspar has learnt how to channel his restless energy into other activities while Linhardt thinks. This is usually a positive development. 

Usually.

This time, all it does is beat down every scrap of courage Linhardt has mustered, a bow strung and dry-fired. Relief and disappointment twist together with the anxiety that permanently resides in Linhardt’s gut, tying his intestines into a knot as he reaches for the notes in Caspar’s hands. Their hands brush in the passing.

Perhaps this is for the best. After all, they are still stuck in a book. There will be time enough for confessions after they make their escape.

“So,” Linhardt starts, half a moment before he realizes he has no clue what he wants to say. His eyes catch on Caspar’s armor, still lying on the floor. “Do you believe we might find greater success if you finish dressing yourself?”

“Oh!” Caspar startles, apparently realizing he is not, in fact, wearing a shirt. “Shit, right! Let me get on that.” 

“Mn. It may prove advantageous,” Linhardt says, turning his eyes to the paper in his hands. It’s a good thing Caspar’s training has long since inured him to his best friend running around shirtless. If not, he would have long since expired. 

“How did the story justify that, by the way?” Linhardt asks, gesturing at the armor. “I don’t imagine many people have reason to steal clothing, even if the victim is a suspected werewolf. One would expect them to desire sustained humanity; no one wants a wolf running around.” 

“Eh, it was pretty much the same deal as in real life,” Caspar says, shrugging, as if that makes any sense. 

Linhardt almost nods before pausing. Then he blinks. He looks at Caspar. 

Caspar finishes buckling on his belt, then looks back.

“What?” 

There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh!” Caspar waves a hand. “Not the werewolf thing! The arranged marriage thing.” He snorts. “The book version of the baron was just as pissed off about it as the original, which, hey, pretty impressive.”

“I thought Raugraf wanted the marriage to succeed,” Linhardt says, the words strung with care. 

“Oh, nah.” Caspar snorted. “Complete opposite, honestly. He’d been making a fuss, so my father decided to, uh…” He made quotation marks with his hands. “‘Put him in his place,’ basically. Like, here, take my title-less son as an in-law as a mark of how little I respect you. Also, you’ll be convinced he’s spying on you and your family and reporting to me the whole time. It’ll be great.” He grimaces. 

Linhardt is frozen. 

He’s always known that political maneuvering is a long, nefarious game of chess, but for Caspar’s own father to treat marrying Caspar as a punishment... Disgust and anger roils in his stomach. 

“You know that you’re worth more than that, don’t you?” Linhardt clenches his fists. “You’re not just… some pawn.” 

“Duh, Lin.” Caspar reaches out, tugging at Linhardt’s hair with an affectionate grin. “Known that for a while. It’s nice to hear, of course, but… I’m over it.”

He says that, but Linhardt knows there’s a reason he didn’t tell him the full story before now. That there’s some shame still there. That he still winces every time he hears about his family being spotted on the battlefield. Caspar may not like to admit it, but he does have his pride, and he’s loyal to a fault. Wounds that cut to the bone are not easily healed. 

“I felt way worse for Raugraf’s daughter, honestly.” Caspar says, returning to his task. Sure, my father might not have listened to me, but I still had more power than her in that whole mess.” He shakes his head.

“After the whole scandal thing, I tried to pass on some money to her so she could take off. Tried to look into it, but I was like fifteen, so.” Caspar sighs. “As far as I know, she didn’t get taken in when her dad went on trial, though, so with any luck...” His face crumples in thought. “I hope she’s doing alright.” 

“If there’s any justice still left in the world, she is,” Linhardt says. Shame burns through his veins like a brand, remembering his past self’s attitude. Even if he hadn’t known the circumstances, it took far too much nerve to look on with jealousy as a woman walked into a marriage she had no ability to refuse. 

Caspar has Linhardt to fight for him. It aches to acknowledge that Raugraf’s daughter may not have had the same. Whether or not it will help, Linhardt sends out every scrap of faith and good will he possesses, hoping that the girl is alright, and that her father is rotting somewhere, contemplating the depths to which he sunk. Whether or not the man regrets sacrificing his child’s free will in pursuit of power, he’ll be made to repent for it. 

“In that case, she’s gotta be fine,” Caspar says, nodding to himself. He crosses his arms, silent for a moment. “Gotta be.”

After a while, he seems to shake himself. 

“Anyway, that might’ve been the way everything went down in real life, but, well...” He shrugs. “No scandal in this story, so I guess Raugraf took matters into his own hands and faked my disappearance.” He sighs. _ “Probably _ would have wrecked their reputation if it got out that his daughter was engaged to a werewolf, so it makes sense they kept that part quiet.” 

“I hate nobility,” Linhardt says, face screwed up in distaste. 

“You _ are _nobility.” Finished dressing himself, Caspar circles around, peering over Linhardt’s shoulder to examine the notes. 

“Am not,” Linhardt sniffs. “The both of us are well and truly disinherited at this point. We never have to deal with any of that nonsense again.”

“I mean, we will,” Caspar says. “Just from the other side of things. We’ll still have to, like, pay taxes. Probably to some of our friends, honestly.” He snorts. “Goddess, that’ll be funny. Hi, Lys, just dropping by to pay off our hunting dues. See ya at the reunion.”

Linhardt can feel Caspar’s breath on his neck, which might contribute to a certain atmosphere if not for the man’s insistence on speculating on whether or not they’ll have to pay various tolls and forms of sales tax. 

Oh well. It’s probably for the best. Before anything else, Linhardt needs to get Caspar out of the book. Then they can talk about their feelings (necessary, unfortunately), kiss (ideally), and once the war ends, they can eke out a living in the woods somewhere beyond the reach of any political machinations.

“So we did the whole clothes thing,” Caspar says, pointing at the notes. One of Flayn’s doodles depicts a rather cheerful looking dog wearing a tunic. “And I already bit a chunk off the baron before you got here—”

“You what?”

“He’s a dick!” Caspar huffs, then gestures at the notes. “Plus, it looks like I was supposed to, anyway, so we’re fine!” 

“Hm,” Linhardt squints down at the pages. Caspar does seem to have a point. “Fair enough, I suppose.” The only worrying thing about that is that it wasn’t enough to meet the requirements of the story. 

“I don’t understand,” Linhardt says, agitated. He turns to the next page in the pile. “What else could there possibly— Oh.” 

“What’s up, Lin?” Caspar asks, and Linhardt has to resist the impulse to cover the page with his hand. Childish. He’d long since outgrown such things when Caspar first caught him reading romances when they were young. 

And yet. 

“It seems that Flayn saw fit to transcribe this passage word for word,” Lin says, his voice somehow holding steady. Perhaps his dignity will survive after all. 

“That’s great!” Caspar says, with the inflection and passion of someone who has not read the passage in question. “What does it say?”

“It says…” Linhardt clears his throat. “It says that ‘The man who had first recognized his friend so changed was relieved to find him whole again. And so, taking him in his arms, he embraced and kissed him fondly, above a hundred times.’”

There’s a moment where neither of them speak. Linhardt can still feel the warmth of Caspar behind him, unmoving. It feels as if the world is silent around them, waiting for a cue. 

“Well,” Linhardts starts, then chuckles. He can’t help himself. Hadn’t he wanted an opportunity to spur him into action? A moment of bravery, excused through circumstance? 

Let no one accuse Linhardt of missing out on an opportunity to make things easier on himself. “One hundred kisses sounds exhausting,” he says, finally. He turns his head towards Caspar, looking over his shoulder. “I hope that once or twice will do.”

For a moment, Caspar doesn’t respond, and it’s all too likely that Linhardt has miscalculated somehow, but then he breathes out, and Caspar is there and flushed, and…

Apologizing.

“Sorry,” Caspar whispers. He is so close, and yet he feels oceans away. Linhardt’s gut twists.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” Linhardt asks, eyes falling closed. He can feel the edges of his mouth turning, but can’t figure out if it’s up or down. There’s ice in his stomach.

“Well, this is kind of a sucky situation to be pushed into,” Caspar says, clasping his shoulder for a brief moment. His palm burns like a brand, then fades away. “You could, uh… It says friend, so you could probably get away with kissing my forehead or something. I know this isn’t exactly what you would have wanted.”

The ice in Linhardt’s stomach pierces him for only a moment more before it melts, warmed with the hopeful suspicion that his best friend may, in fact, be ridiculous enough to believe that Linhardt doesn’t want him. 

“Caspar,” Linhardt says, finally turning around. To his delight and aggravation, Caspar is looking away, face flushed. “Look at me, please.”

When several beats pass without Caspar moving, Linhardt closes the distance. He reaches up, cupping Caspar’s cheek in his hand in an echo of their earlier position. 

“Caspar,” he says again, quietly. “When have I ever done anything I didn’t want to do?”

This once, Linhardt is brave.

“Oh,” Caspar says, his expression flickering through shock, relief, affection, and… well, mostly like he’s been struck over the head with a blunt object, but in an endearing fashion. 

Linhardt sighs. This is the man he loves. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

“If you are quite alright with it,” Linhardt says, drawing closer still, “I would like to bestow a portion of that excessive amount of kisses, now.”

“I’d be more than alright with that,” Caspar replies, voice pitching. He winces at the sound of it, which is a shame, since it’s one of the best things Linhardt has ever heard. 

Linhardt begins to pull Caspar down when he’s stopped by a sudden hand. 

“Wait a second,” Caspar says, biting his lip. “Do I also get to kiss you, or is the story, like, hardline on only you kissing me? Because I really, really want to kiss you too, but I don’t want us to be stuck in a book forever.”

“Good question,” Linhardt says, his eyes fixed on the area of Caspar’s jaw he intends to make acquaintance with the second he is given the go-ahead. “It’s probably better if you hold off for now. We can engage in a more mutual exchange once we’re free from the book.”

“I guess,” Caspar says, frowning. “Not that I don’t want you to kiss me! But I, uh…” He rubs the back of his head. “I’m kind of in love with you? And would like to also kiss you back.” 

“Of course,” Linhardt says, then realizes that is not the correct response. “I mean— My apologies.” He tucks a loose bit of hair behind Caspar’s ear, and he can hear his breath hitch. “I mean that I’m also in love with you, of course.” He hadn’t thought that was in question, really, but clarity does suit them best, when it comes down to it. 

There is a second where Caspar’s eyes sweep across Linhardt’s face, searching, before his whole being lights up, bright as the sun. 

“Oh,” and an exhale are the only warning given before Linhardt is swept into Caspar’s arms, his chin resting in the hollow of Linhardt’s neck. 

“It is... so hard not to kiss you right now,” Caspar says, breath rattling out of him. 

“Mmn.” Linhardt hums, warm with affection, and turns to kiss the top of Caspar’s head. Then his face wrinkles. _ Why _ is Caspar’s hair covered in dust? The answer likely has something to do with being a dirty, stinky wolf who was rolling around in the dirt in the recent past, but if Linhardt thinks about that for too long, he might want to kiss him less. 

“You’ll live,” he says instead. If he can endure a little longer without being kissed, Caspar can endure not getting to kiss him. 

“You’re such an asshole sometimes,” Caspar says, drawing back with a laugh. He doesn’t stop when Linhardt covers his mouth with his own, which makes it _ very _ difficult to figure out a good angle. It’s a good thing that Linhardt loves the sound.

“And yet,” Linhardt says, withdrawing after a moment, “you love me. Seems to me that you could have easily avoided such a dilemma.” His next kiss lands along Caspar’s jaw. 

“Nah,” Caspar says, and the shake of his head disrupts Linhardt’s aim. “You’re too easy to love.”

“You are perhaps the only person in the world with that opinion,” Linhardt says.

“Can’t be,” Caspar says, staunchly. He takes Linhardt’s hand in his, bringing it close to his mouth before apparently remembering the current restrictions of the story. “Not when you’re you.”

Linhardt is under no misapprehensions about storybook endings, and being trapped in one has not endeared them to him any further. There is a reason he did not act on his impulses until now. Despite his resolution, he is still so very afraid of what comes after. However… 

The light shining in Caspar’s eyes and the warmth of his hand cannot be denied. Any feelings that Linhardt may have pretended to have trapped in a bottle are loose, never to be caged again. 

It would, perhaps, be nice if they didn’t need to discuss such feelings, leaving it at the words already exchanged. However, that wouldn’t be fair to Caspar. He needs the reassurance of words, and, well… They’re both long overdue to have a conversation about their emotions like adults, when they emerge from this tale. 

Even more overdue, however, is the press of lips against lips, jaw, neck, wrist, forehead, knuckles, and lips again. There’s a low roar in Linhardt’s ears and warmth buzzing beneath his skin, vibrating with every touch. Even if the number of kisses demanded by the fable was excessive, it seems that, in this, he doesn’t mind expending the eff—

“Oh, _ Goddess, _ why were we ever worried about you two?” Lysithea’s voice cuts through like a knife, echoing with the shocked revulsion that can only a younger sister confronted with proof of her brother’s romantic entanglements can muster. 

Ah. So the buzzing and the roaring was Lysithea’s spell coming to an end. 

Resting in Caspar’s arms and looking out at a disgruntled Lysithea, an unflustered Flayn, and his expressionless former professor, there are many thoughts that could come to mind. The operative word being could.

Instead, all Linhardt can think is that he never actually settled on a pithy phrase to announce upon freeing himself. Fortunately, Caspar has always excelled at making up for whatever Linhardt lacks. 

“Hey guys!” Caspar says, brightly. “We’re back!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines about the over one hundred kisses are in the actual folktale. Two Bros. Kissing on the king's bed over one hundred times. As You Do. 
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for being so patient while I worked on this. Graduation and grad school applications took it out of me. 
> 
> Up next! Short (hopefully) epilogue!


End file.
